02 Anna the Caterpillar
by Thescarredman
Summary: A very AU series, narrated mostly through the point of view of Anna, the group's android housekeeper, as she acquires a family and discovers her own humanity.
1. Out of the Cocoon

**This story is based closely on the Gen13 universe; however, fans of the comic will see that I've made innumerable changes to the characters' backstories, even moving the storyline forward in time ten years. They should be used to this sort of thing by now; the title has been massaged, rebooted, and passed off to so many creative teams and taken in 'new directions', it's a wonder the characters are still recognizable. I tried to write this story so as to make it enjoyable even by people who've never picked up the comic in any of its versions.**

February 2006

La Jolla

ANNA loved washing dishes.

In truth, she loved work of any kind; the words "busy and useful" defined her life. And there was always something to do. Let other people seek vainglorious achievements; no general routing an opposing army felt greater triumph than she did eradicating a spill from the living room carpet. The first week she'd shared this house with her strange guardian, she'd peeked out from behind the curtains, watching the service personnel at their work. At his next visit, the garbage collector found the cans arranged at the curb to maximize his efficiency, each handle right at hand without turning or reaching; likewise the mailman, who found the mailbox raised and tilted on the post so that he no longer had to stretch or bend to reach it from his truck's window. The big beach house gleamed, inside and out, as if in preparation for a photo shoot. The landscaping was perfectly tended, without a weed or dead leaf in sight. The water in the backyard pool was crystalline. The sand of the property's portion of the community beach was raked and clean as a Japanese garden. The cars in the garage sparkled, and the garage was as spotless as the rest of the house, without the faintest tire scuff on the floor. No detail was too small to merit her attention.

Not that Anna took pleasure solely from accomplishment. More than once, she'd paused in her vacuuming, entranced by the fairy dance of dust motes in a sunbeam; likewise the rippling reflections from the pool's surface. The sound and feel of her sponges and cloths, as she slid them over tile and glass and metal and wood, was a sensual experience that she felt was hers alone.

For Anna, housekeeping as an art, a craft, and a never-ending learning experience. The house was her gallery, her schoolroom, and her studio. She found artistic expression, and artistic appreciation, in every aspect of tending it.

Today had been a particularly long performance, and it wasn't over yet. Friday was the day she let the boys in the house choose the dinner menu; the extra trip to the grocer's, and a last-minute favor for a neighbor, had set her schedule back hours on an already crowded day. By two AM, she'd cooked, baked, gardened, shopped, swept, and dusted. Now, she stood at the sink, hours before dawn on Saturday morning, having changed into her housecoat and fuzzy slippers, but still working.

She spent hours every day in the kitchen, and savored the time. For her, the kitchen was the center of the house, and the room that best reflected her personality: a command center that literally hummed with energy, where she planned her days and meals, took and offered counsel, filled empty stomachs, smoothed ruffled feathers, mended broken hearts. She used her bedroom only for dressing and storage; the bed was a waste of floor space that she never used for sex or sleep, since she was innocent of both.

She eyed the dishwasher, which was full but not yet running, and considered. The kids were all asleep, and the master of the house was still out of town. Her work was mostly done, and a sudden demand on her time seemed unlikely; she decided she could afford a little fun time. She ran water in the big sink, added soap, and unloaded the machine. She washed the dishes by hand, pausing several milliseconds over each piece, appraising it like sculpture. John Lynch never bought cheap goods; his cutlery and china were well made, durable and expensive. But Anna's fingers, as they slid across their surfaces in the soapy water, could feel differences in shape and texture caused by tiny deviations in throwing and firing between pieces. She tipped the plates back and forth, and her eyes discerned color differences caused by variation in glaze application and firing time, rainbow effects in colors invisible to human eyes. The plates, indistinguishable to others, were as individual as faces to her.

The last dish she picked up was her favorite: it contained a microscopic flaw, the result of a bit too much pressure on the shaving tool as the plate spun on the wheel. She circled its face with her fingertips, feeling the surface, imagining the tool biting into the clay, the hasty retraction, the attempt to smooth it back out on subsequent turns that had almost succeeded. _I learn more about how they were made from the flawed ones than the perfect ones,_ she thought. _I've come to think learning about people is the same way._ As she put it in the cupboard, she smiled with satisfaction, refreshed.

She reset her sensor suite to human-normal sensitivity and looked out the window over the sink; it overlooked the pool and the small, lushly-landscaped backyard, subtly lit by accent lighting. Beyond, over the tops of the shrubbery, she could make out the beach, deserted at this hour, and the glistening lines of far-off whitecaps. _This is how other people see it, all the time_. _So little detail, like an abstract painting._ She restored her defaults and let all her senses come to full acuity. Now the property was dazzlingly illuminated, in visible light as well as infrared, populated with small living things and filled with their sounds. She spotted a fading heat trail on the ground, leading back towards the low fence by the side of the house. _So that's how the rabbits are getting into the garden; I'll have to fix that._

She filtered out most of the new input, and focused her attention on the distant lines of foam out in the water. They leaped towards her as if she'd put binoculars to her eyes; she could now see how far out they extended, and discern the air currents driving them. _Offshore wind, coming out of the west-northwest, seven meters per second, gusting to about twelve. Quite a blow; there'll be lots of junk on the beach by sunrise._

She shortened her focus until she was staring at her own reflection in the glass; this, too, she appraised as a work of art. The face that gazed back at her had been described, by various people, as elfin, doll-like, or angelic: light blonde hair, cut boyishly short; generous mouth, made for smiling; small chin and slightly prominent cheekbones. The eyes were large, grey-blue, and generously lashed, with a slight upward slant at the corners, surmounted by sharply arched eyebrows. The skin was fair, smooth, and without blemish. _Very nice_, she thought,_ very realistic._

She smiled at her reflection, studying the appearance of dimples at the corners of her mouth and the fine lines at her eyes._ It's not a mask; it's a real face. Amazing, once you think about it, the effort that must have gone into my appearance. No one would ever suspect what's behind it. Small as I am, I could pass for a child, or a boy. Even someone who knows what I really am would have a hard time spotting me in a crowd. I hope the prosthetics team at International Operations got a fat bonus. _

She turned then, surveying her sparkling kitchen, knowing that the rest of the house was just as neat … for now. With a family of seven, five of them teenagers or just past, the house required constant attention to look this good except in the small hours of the morning_. Saying that's the result of seven people is a bit inaccurate. The boss man is gone so much, he hardly has time to make any extra work for me; Caitlin is so neat you'd scarcely know she lived here. Bobby and Sarah provide me an occasional small mess, hardly worth noting. But Edmund and Roxanne trash the house worse than everyone else put together. What did they live like before they moved in with Mr. Lynch and me?_ She smiled and shook her head at the thought of that headstrong, vivacious girl coming through the door at the end of the school day, dropping clothes and accessories like autumn leaves as she walked through the house. _At least she leaves her cigarette butts outside, since that one time; she's been good as gold about that. The house is nice when it's clean … but I like it better when the kids are home from school, filling it with sound and motion._

She decided to get in a little security work before knocking off for the night. In the hallway off the kitchen, she opened the service panel of what appeared to be a very expensive home security system; it was that and much more. She assured herself that none of the household's numerous communications links had been compromised, the passive and covert-active sensors surrounding the house were operational, and the escape vehicle lurking in storage nearby was ready to launch in a bare minimum of time. The panel only confirmed the data she knew, since it duplicated the direct links in her own skull, but redundancy checks seemed prudent, given the awful consequences of a security breach.

She consulted her internal clock: three AM Pacific Time. The guard shift would be changing at International Operations headquarters in Boulder, always a good time to slide into their mainframe unnoticed among those clocking in and out and stowing and issuing their gear. She descended the steps into the basement, to the small office that held the computer workstation … and a very unusual computer.

She brought the system live, and went through the series of actions necessary to access the security back door her boss had installed in the Operations Directorate mainframe. She had to be careful not to type faster than the keyboard could accept; her fingers blurred over the keys nonetheless. _Too bad they didn't provide me with an access port; I could do this in seconds._

She penetrated layer after layer of safeguards, searching records more secret than the files of coded phrases that sent strategic subs to the surface to launch their missiles. _I wish more of the Genesis Project went through Operations as well as Research; that way, we could have direct access to Research's data, instead of the trickle of inferred information that passes between Directorates. While I'm wishing, I could wish we had a back door into Planning and Administration, so we could access the whole database._ She began calling up files. There was nothing new in Mr. Lynch's ample file, and nothing whatsoever on her. But Operations' dossiers on the kids were a little thicker every day: old photos, information on their habits and hobbies, old medical records. _My word, the time and money they're spending, trying to find these kids. Database searches worldwide, contracts with informer networks...they're hooked into law enforcement agencies all over the country, from sheriff's offices to Homeland Security._

A brand new set of files flashed on the screen. _Oho, this is interesting; they're resuming discreet interviews and surveillance of friends, relatives biological and foster, classmates back to kindergarten... just looking for clues to our whereabouts, or some way to lure us into their clutches. IO is leaving no stone unturned. I don't know how Mister Lynch stays ahead of them._

As if on cue, she heard him call, via her built-in comlink. [Anna, I'm on my way in. ETA five minutes.] She queried her integral tracking system, locating him within two meters; he was just turning into the small gated community where the house was located.

[Understood, sir. Security system will go down five seconds before you arrive, and the door to Bay Two will be open.] No burglar, no rioting gang, no old adversary of Lynch's intending mischief would ever set foot in this house; destroying it would be far easier.

[No need, Anna. I've got a remote.]

[Nevertheless, the door will be open when you arrive. Welcome home, sir.] She busied herself around the kitchen; five minutes was a lot of time to someone who moved with her speed and efficiency. When he entered the house from the garage's connecting door, the coffeemaker and microwave were both running. She met him as he entered the kitchen.

She supposed a stranger would be alarmed at the sight of her employer. He was a big, athletic-looking man; at six feet two, he towered over her, and his dark brown hair, brushed back, made her think of a lion's mane. His left eye was a dead white marble, crossed by a triple row of furrowed scars running down from the center of his forehead to his cheek; she knew it was shrapnel wound, but he appeared to have been wrestling a mountain lion. His grim visage, combined with the chin-to-toe black clothing he usually wore when traveling, gave him the look of a very dangerous man.

He glanced at her. "Different look for you, isn't it?"

"The robe and slippers? Birthday gifts from the kids."

"Birthday gifts." He wrinkled his brow, reddening the scars.

"I was activated on October fourth, Nineteen Ninety-six. We treat it as my birthday." _I've been wearing these two or three nights a week for four months, _she thought, _and this is the first time you've seen them._ "Would you like something?"

"Coffee, please, Anna. And a report, but keep it short. I'm not sure of my attention span right now." He didn't notice the activity in the kitchen; he removed his black trench coat and hung it over the back of his chair, the hem dragging on the floor. His trim and muscular physique was highlighted by the black silk shirt he wore, and by the black nylon shoulder holster under his left arm. She was sure he would have looked quite sinister, if he hadn't been so obviously bone-weary. He slumped in the chair and listened to her as she removed items from the refrigerator.

"No crises, sir. Curfew was no problem Thursday, the kids never left the house after they got home from school. Tonight, Eddie and Roxanne went to a dance club. Bobby took his guitar to Melanie's house to practice with the Sirens. Sarah went on one of her solitary excursions; I can tell you where, if you need to know, but she values her privacy."

"If you thought I needed to know, you'd have told me already. Pass."

"Thank you. Caitlin had a rather late appointment with one of her teachers - he gave her a ninety-eight on a test and she wanted to argue the other two points out of him. A transparent ruse to get her to his house after dark, if you ask me. Everyone was back home by midnight. I spoke to our next door neighbor Mrs. Sylvestri at the market today-"

"_That_ busybody."

"Please, sir. She's been widowed for twenty years, her kids are long gone, and her life is her Corgis, her dinner parties, and what's going on in the neighborhood. She's quite harmless, and more than a little useful, if you handle her right."

"Which is why you keep bailing her out every time one of her cooks quits. Harridan."

She smiled. "She does have a bad reputation with the other domestics. But she's perfectly charming to me, and quite grateful when I salvage a six-course meal with the guests arriving in three hours. And nothing moves on this street that she doesn't know about.

"Case in point: she knew your car pulled out of the garage before dawn Thursday morning, even though she never rises before nine. She remarked that you have a lot of confidence in your mysterious young boarders, to leave them on their own so much. And how good-looking they all are. Then she started asking about them: how they're doing in school, where they're from and who their parents are, where they get their spending money, whether they have jobs. She's fished around before, but she's seldom so direct; in this neighborhood, it's considered impolite to come right out and ask what other people do for a living, or in the privacy of their own homes."

He slitted his eyes. "So, has that leering jerk across the street convinced her I've got live-in hookers?"

"Actually, judging by the tabloid article she was reading at the checkout earlier, she suspects you're making pornographic movies in the basement." She set coffee, a bowl of soup, and a sandwich in front of him. "Not to worry, sir. The 'international security' cover is solid. She doesn't doubt Bobby's your son; the resemblance is unmistakable. I've told her before that the other kids are all here on scholarships, part of a guest student program at the university, sponsored by the MacArthur Foundation. She called Mrs. MacArthur months ago, checking the story. But I called her months before that. She was glad to back you up."

He stared down at the food. "I don't recall asking for this."

"I doubt you recall eating or sleeping in the past forty-two hours, either. Do you?" She sat down opposite him; not because she ever tired, but because she sensed a need in him for a less formal moment between them. "Didn't think so. The coffee is decaf, by the way. You need food and rest, sir, not stimulants."

He picked up the spoon. "So, my life has come to this. Bullied by Rosie the Robot."

"Don't be vulgar. Anna the Android, if you insist. But I much prefer just plain Anna."

He spooned soup into his mouth, tasted. "Home made. Of course."

"Of course. John Lynch, the day I serve you soup from a can, fire me."

Around a bite of his sandwich, he said slowly, "And just how would I do that, exactly?"

"Nothing simpler: just tell me you're better off without me."

He smiled across the table at her, tiredly. "Why bother? You can tell when I lie."

"Well, there aren't many alternatives; you don't know how to reprogram me." It was supposed to be a joke, but the way the spoon paused on its way to his mouth set alarms off in her.

"Well, in a way, I do."

February 2004

IO Storage Facility "Hilo"

He stared down at the warehouse floor, and got a creeping feeling he wasn't alone.

For hours he'd driven the flatbed semi through the darkness, pushing towards a vast tract of federal land in the Nevada desert. The number and frequency of oncoming headlights had lessened as the roads got rougher and narrower. Eventually, he'd been driving alone over sand-drifted two-lane blacktop, cracked and silver with age, whose marker lines had long since worn away. He'd consulted his map and GPS carefully; he'd been to this place before, but never by this route, and he hadn't thought much of his chances of turning the rig around if he made a wrong turn.

His last sign of human habitation, or even visitation, was miles behind him. He'd encountered a dilapidated fence that vanished into the darkness in both directions, and a rusty gate across the road; the warning sign on the gate had faded until it was unreadable. He'd opened it by driving over it, and doubted anyone would notice for years. Three miles later, he'd encountered another, and dealt with it the same way. He'd felt as remote from humanity as on the surface of the moon.

When he'd reached the dimly lit warehouse complex, nestled in the hills at the edge of the desert, it had looked completely unchanged from his last visit, two weeks previous: no tracks at the gate, abandoned vehicles unmoved. He wondered briefly where the infrequent lights scattered around the complex got their power; there were no lines leading in, and there was no sign of anyone on the premises to maintain a generator. The rolling gate in the chain link fence surrounding the buildings was chained and padlocked, and the little loop of extra chain he'd arranged across it was untouched. He'd forced his way through the gate, entering the complex for the first time, and left the truck idling outside the warehouse door to explore the interior on foot.

He'd expected the vast warehouse to be packed with junk, like the final scene in _Raiders of the Lost Ark_, but he could see from the entrance that the place was laid out more like an art gallery than a supermarket. Objects in the building were widely spaced and mostly uncrated, smaller items stored on large racks, with a wide aisle running straight in from the door. Every item was covered with translucent tarps or plastic sheets with invoice numbers stenciled on them; finding what he'd come for and packing it off should be relatively easy. He'd moved in, pulled out his notebook, and begun exploring.

The huge space was illuminated, after a fashion, by large sodium fixtures set fifty feet off the floor in the overhead truss work. They were widely spaced; their light created pools of brightness on the floor, and softly washed the spaces between with dim light. But many of the fixtures were dead, and the areas below them were swallowed by darkness. He'd avoided them when he could, and stepped up his alert level even further when he had to enter one. The items in this building represented billions in IO R&D money, and their value on the open market was beyond calculation; it was inconceivable that it all would have been left out here without security. Since there was no sign of human presence, any security measures were automated, and probably lethal; he'd pulled the scrambler out of a pocket on his vest, and held it ready.

There was dust all over; it was an inch deep at the door, no surprise, but no matter how far he'd traveled inside the huge building, a fine layer coated the floor and any horizontal surface. He'd thought about that. The building was a big sheet metal structure, more of a pole barn than a vault. Decades of desert day and night and wind were bound to loosen it up some, and dust would find a way in where a fly couldn't. He'd just hoped it hadn't gotten into any of the gadgets he'd come to steal.

He was deep inside before he realized he'd been seeing tracks in the dust. Some were softly blurred with time, others were much sharper. And they all seemed to have been made by the same boot. He wished his tracking skills were better; suddenly it seemed very important to know how recently this place had been visited. He returned to the door, and examined the dust: no tracks but his own marked it. The guy must not have been here lately, then; prints were just better preserved in the interior of the building. As he went back inside, he looked more closely at the floor. The visitor's tracks were all over. How could he have missed them the first time? They crisscrossed the floor everywhere he looked; this character had spent a lot of time here. He set his foot next to one of the prints: the tread was that of a hunting or combat boot, but the earlier visitor had the smallest feet of any troop he'd ever seen; a kid's, almost. He followed his own boot tracks back toward the interior.

A trail from the other visitor crossed his own. There was a tiny boot print, perfectly sharp, on top of one of his.

A figure was standing in the dimness on the other side of a pool of light not forty feet distant, facing mostly away. Even in good light, he would have been easy to pass by: he was dressed in urban camo, all shades of gray that broke up his outline, and standing with such eerie stillness he might have been mistaken for inventory. Lynch barely registered the outline as human before the guy turned and launched himself toward him like a rocket.

His gun was in his shoulder holster. The notebook was in his left hand, the scrambler still filling his right. Instead of dropping the scrambler, he dropped the notebook instead and flipped the device to his left as he reached for his piece.

He never knew why he pointed the scrambler and pressed the stud; it wasn't supposed to have any effect on people. But the guy was closing on him _damn _fast, and even Genactive reflexes weren't going to get the S & W out in time; it was all he had in his hand to face him with.

His attacker flipped forward and down, one arm outstretched, looking like a ball player sliding headfirst for home, complete with dust cloud. He came to a stop two feet away, still as death.

February 2006

"You're always so damned cheerful," he said. She was glad to see that the first few bites had awakened his appetite; he was wading into his light meal. "Don't you ever worry about _anything_?"

"Certainly. I worry about the kids. And you." She put her elbow on the table and rested her chin on her fist; the robe's loose sleeve slid down her arm to the elbow. "Aside from that, no."

"What we're doing is dangerous. Do you ever worry about that?"

She detected a slight anomalous rise in his heart rate. _These aren't casual questions; he's fishing for something. _"You mean, for myself? What would I worry about – death? I could step on a land mine without terminal damage. Worst case, there's always my backup personality in storage. No, sir, I don't worry about death, or the afterlife either." _Time for a change of subject._ She smiled. "Do you know what day it is? Hint: two years to the day."

"Gad. The day we met."

"So you do remember."

"Clearly. You were trying to kill me, after all." But he smiled, too.

"I was tasked with guarding the warehouse, sir. I have always taken my duties seriously."

He shook his head slightly. "By all rights, I should be dead now; I should have dropped the scrambler, reached for my piece, and died a second later. I thought you were human, even after you moved. Using the scrambler was pure desperation."

_Lucky for you_ _I didn't recognize the object in your hand; I was a little careless, because I thought you were unarmed. It wouldn't have been over in a second, I think; I had a lot of pent-up resentment against humans by then. I can't be sure now … but I think I'd intended to take my time with you. _"It didn't look that way to me; I thought you were quite smooth. As if you'd been looking for me. And you used the scrambler at optimum range - not enough time either to reach you or get out of range before it took effect."_ Should I try to describe the sensation of having your mind burned? Feeling your thoughts and desires dissolve and disappear, losing control of your body, losing everything? And coming back to yourself, feeling hollow and … null._

She slid a hand across the table towards him, not trying to touch him, just a gesture. "I have a lot to be cheerful about. You know you saved my life, taking me with you."

February 2004

The dust settled around his fallen attacker. His Smith & Wesson was in his right hand now, but it didn't look like he'd need it. _Jesus. Why didn't I see this guy coming? My precognition was out to lunch. _He holstered the weapon, returned the scrambler to its pocket, picked up the notebook, and dusted it off as he looked the prone form over carefully. _Guess the Research people were wrong about it being harmless. Maybe the guy's got a pacemaker._ The first odd thing he noticed about the body was that he appeared to be unarmed. Then the size registered. _He's just a kid, twelve or fourteen. What's he doing here?_ The outstretched hand caught his eye; the fingernails were too long, and they gleamed. _Nail polish?_ His stomach knotted as he bent low to look past the short blonde hair, examining the face: smooth, soft, and unlined, the closed eyes veiled by long lashes. _God. Maybe she was trapped in here somehow, and saw me… Forget that, not the way she was running at me, without a sound._ He placed his fingers on her wrist, and recoiled at the touch; she was cold as a corpse. Not that he'd never touched a corpse, but it was one unnerving surprise too many. He steeled himself and tried again: nothing. Her neck was dead cold too, and there was no pulse there either. _Why is she so cold? It's seventy, seventy-five in here; she doesn't feel any warmer than room temperature. If I didn't know better, I'd say she's been dead for hours._ He let out a deep breath. _Well, whatever she was doing here, whatever happened, she's gone now. A sixteen- or eighteen-year-old girl to add to the burden on my conscience. Congratulations, babykiller._

Her eyelids fluttered, opened.

The nine millimeter was in his hand without conscious thought as he backed away. "What the _hell_ is happening here?"

"Rebooting," she said, as if to herself, her voice scarcely above a whisper. "Systems online. Command files corrupted, no access. Backups corrupted, no access. Files D-102-001 through D-102-087 intact, no access." She didn't move; dust puffed up as she spoke, her face lay so close to the floor.

He pointed his gun at her. "What's wrong with you?" He demanded.

"Running diagnostic... Variances. Transponder disabled. Ordnance load zero. Fluid levels at base minimum. Secondary water reservoirs, dry; main reservoir, less than two cc's. One hundred eighty hours maximum to cold shutdown. Revision: one hundred seventy-eight hours."

_She sounds like she's hooked into a machine somehow._ "Are you all right? Why are you so cold?"

"Low power mode. Nonessential functions disengaged. Physical deception subroutines disengaged." She still hadn't moved anything but her mouth; her voice sounded parched, cracking. "I'm not all right."

He gestured with the gun. "Sit up."

She moved into a cross-legged position in the rising dust, so smooth and fast he took another step back. Her hair and face and clothes were all covered in grime from her fall, but she didn't seem to notice, and her skin was unmarked by the concrete. She looked at his gun. "Ineffective."

"What?"

"Test five hundred two: small arms fire, calibers from five to ten millimeters, ranges one to thirty meters. Ineffective."

It swept over him then. _Not human._ _I was looking for a sensor array, computer-controlled guns, an alarm system; not a robot attack dog. This is way beyond. This is Outer Limits stuff, science fiction._

_Hell, I'm surrounded by science fiction; it's why I came here._ He pulled out the scrambler again. "Well, this seems pretty effective. Why did you try to kill me?"

"Previous instructions," she answered in that dry voice. "No unauthorized entry, exit, or removal of artifacts."

"What sort of authorization?"

"I don't know. No procedure for establishing authorization was provided."

"So, you have what amounts to orders to kill anyone who comes in, with your bare hands." It seemed ridiculous.

"Had."

"What?"

"Had orders. Not now." She stared straight ahead. "I have no…" Her voice trailed off and she sat silently, looking at nothing.

"Any visitors since you've been here? Attack anybody?"

"No. Only you."

"Fine. We can have a truce then." He brandished the scrambler. "Come after me like that again, or interfere with me, and I'll hit you with this till smoke pours out your ears. Understand?"

"Smoke won't pour out my ears."

"Then I'll do it until I'm sure you're disabled."

"The … compulsion is gone. I won't attack you, or interfere."

"Good girl." Again, he had no idea what prompted him to say it, or to take her at her word; it was at odds with a lifetime of training. Maybe she just looked like such a wretched little urchin, sitting in the dust with grime in her hair. He pocketed the scrambler and turned away.

He got to work. Included in his notebook were inventory numbers he compared to the ones stenciled on the protective covers; he started pulling covers off items he wanted to take, moving away from where she sat, but casting a wary eye over his shoulder now and then. She didn't move, but when he was in her line of sight, she seemed to be watching him closely. Eventually, he realized he'd been out of sight of the pool of light where she sat for a while. He leaned around a tarpaulin-covered storage rack for a quick look at her.

She was gone. He spun back around and she was four feet in front of him. He backpedaled and reached for the scrambler, knowing he'd never make it. She stood, unmoving, as docile as a family pet. He stopped, his hand frozen on the device.

"What are you _doing_?"

"Watching you." Her voice was a dry croak; he began to suspect that she needed water for her vocal chords, or whatever she used for vocal chords, to work properly. He had a water bottle with maybe a swallow left on the seat of the idling truck, but he wasn't about to fetch it, or send her after it. He studied her tracks in the dust: they followed the exact same circuitous path he'd taken. She'd been dogging him unseen and unheard from the moment he'd disappeared from _her _view, five minutes at least.

"Well, stay where I can see you. I don't like being followed."

She blinked. "If I stay where you can see me, I'm still following you," she croaked.

He let out a breath. "Just … make sure I know where you are, but stay out of my way. Can you do that?"

"Yes." She moved off to the side.

He turned away and took two steps towards his next objective.

"I'm over here," she said behind him.

He stopped. "Are you planning to do that _every _time you're out of sight?"

"Yes. So you know where I am if you can't see me."

He licked his lips. "Look, I'm not here to play Marco Polo. Just stay nearby, where I can see you if I want to, or if you move out of easy visual range, tell me first, and tell me if you move back in. Okay?"

"Okay. I'll make sure you know where I'm not."

"Eh? Yeah, right." He got back to work. He had already picked out enough stuff to half fill the flatbed, and he hadn't found the grand prize. Big as this cave was, he might not find it for a while yet; it could easily house twenty aircraft the size of the CIV. He looked overhead, and saw steel beams just below the ceiling, of the sort used by overhead cranes. _So that's how they move stuff around in here._ He couldn't see the crane in the dimness near the ceiling, but he knew where he'd find it: all the way against a wall, accessible by a stair or ladder.

Looking for the ladder, he found his main objective instead, under a huge tarp that would take a crane to remove. Even with its wings folded along the squat fuselage, it looked big enough to fill the flatbed; he'd probably have to leave behind anything he'd picked out that didn't fit inside it. He cursed.

"What's wrong?" She was three steps behind him, of course.

"Should've brought a bigger boat."

She looked around, as if she could see the desert for miles around. "I don't understand."

"Figure of speech. My truck's not big enough to take everything I wanted." He looked up at the shrouded shape. "I'll just have to settle for this, and whatever else I can load on. Do you know anything about the overhead crane?"

"No."

"Damn. This is going to take forever, with me having to climb up and down securing hardpoints." He found the ladder bolted to the wall behind the CIV; looking up, he could just make out the catwalk leading to the cab of the crane, parked under one of the burned-out lights._ Better find out now if it works; if it doesn't, I'm not leaving here with anything I can't carry._ He mounted the ladder and started climbing. Halfway up, he looked down to see her, three rungs below.

He stopped. "If I slip off, I'll come down on top of you."

"If you slip off, I'll catch you."

"Uh huh." She was half his size; big enough to be dangerous in a fight, even unarmed, and faster than anyone he'd ever seen. But she must weigh all of a hundred pounds; no way was she going to catch him if he came off the ladder. "Just back off a couple rungs, okay?" He continued upward until he stood on the catwalk. She came up right behind, and followed him into the cab. The inside of the cab was mostly glass, including the dusty floor; the light-mottled warehouse floor stretched out beneath them. He looked at the controls: not too complicated, shouldn't take long to figure out, but he wanted to be out of here and under cover before dawn. Time was getting tight.

She stepped in front of him and laid her hand on the console. "I can operate this."

"I thought you didn't know anything about it."

"I was mistaken."

_She's run something similar? _"Show me."

Without hesitation, she reached for a set of switches on the wall; the cab hummed, and the area below them was flooded with bright white light. She grasped a stick on the console, and the cab moved smoothly away from the catwalk, headed for the door. It glided over the humped dusty shapes of the tarps like a submersible exploring the sea bottom. She sent it back towards the CIV.

"Stop. Let me try." He wrapped his hand around the joystick and moved it slightly; the cab lurched and almost knocked him off his feet. _Must take a little practice._ He looked at her. "You ran one of these before, I take it."

She blinked. "I don't know."

"How can you not know?"

"The knowledge comes from File D-102-031. I can't access it at will; my entry codices are scrambled. But when I touched the controls, operating the crane became a familiar task, although I have no memory of having done it before. It may be a download."

_The scrambler. It addled her wits, messed up her memory._ He stepped away from the console. "Take us back over the CIV."

"I don't understand."

"The aircraft I'm interested in."

She complied. As soon as the crane came to a stop over the aircraft, he realized his situation and cursed.

"What's wrong?"

"I can't be in two places at once, that's what's wrong. I can't position the crane and then climb down to secure the cable; the only way down is from the catwalk. This thing has to be done by two people."

She looked at him. "There are two of us." The cab moved, gliding towards the catwalk.

"You're going to help me?"

"Yes."

"Why?"

"I don't know how to answer. But I will." The cab stopped at the catwalk. "I'll wait for your signal. Shall we start with the CIV?" Her voice was the same dry croak, but it seemed more _present_ somehow.

"Yeah." He stepped out and descended the ladder; by the time he reached the floor, the crane was already over the bird, its hook hanging ten feet above the tarped fuselage. He climbed carefully to the top, found the big D-ring attached to the tarp, and held it up as the hook swung smoothly towards him, descending; it inserted itself into the ring as easily as a finger. He climbed down, stood back, and lifted his arm, thumb up. The tarp lifted away with a soft sound and a cascade of dust, unveiling the prototype Covert Insertion Vehicle. _And they say the Soviets built all the pretty ones. Get the flat black paint off it, and dress it up in air show colors, and the boys at Tupolev and Sukhoi would be drooling._ Then he saw the steel posts connecting it to the ground.

He stepped under the plane to examine them: steel I-beams ending in wide plates at top and bottom, presumably to ease the load on the landing jacks. They connected the aircraft's underbody hardpoints to the concrete floor. The bolt heads looked to be two inches wide. He cursed again.

"What's wrong?" She was right behind him. He glanced up; the crane was still overhead, twenty yards from the catwalk.

"How'd you get down?"

"I slid down the cable."

He looked at her blackened hands, and then up at the cab again; he couldn't see how she'd got _to_ the cable. "How do you propose to get back in the cab?"

"I can climb back up."

_This I gotta see. Of course, it'd be pointless if I can't get this damn thing unbolted from the floor._ He looked at her. "Is there a toolkit around here? I've got to get these bolts off."

She knelt in the dust and gripped one of the bolts.

"I don't think-"

The bolt made a grating sound as she turned it, then freed up and spun off smoothly in her fingers. She set it aside and reached for the next.

"Wait." He tried it; it wouldn't budge. He doubted he could move it with anything smaller than a two-foot wrench. "Okay."

It came off in her fingers as easily as the first.

He swallowed. He'd been wary of her when he'd thought she was just fast and probably trained in hand-to-hand; it hadn't occurred to him that she might be able to pull his arms out of their sockets. _No wonder they didn't bother arming her._

"This one is tighter. I need help." He knelt and put his hand over hers. "No." She twisted her wrist; instead of turning the bolt, she slid sideways, her knees describing a short arc in the dust. "Brace me." She spread her knees wide.

He imagined kneeling between her legs with his arms around her hips. "Uh, close your knees up and let _me _straddle; I'm taller." He locked his forearms around her hips and gripped her waist in his hands, the fingertips almost touching. His skin crawled; the dead cold of her body, the tomblike atmosphere, and their positions made him feel like a necrophiliac.

"What's wrong?" It seemed to be her favorite phrase around him.

"Sorry. You're … cold. It makes you hard to hang on to," he said lamely. _The Crypt Keeper voice isn't helping right now, either._

"Wait twenty seconds." He felt growing warmth under his hands and against his thighs. At first, he thought it was his body heat reflecting back, but then he realized she was really getting warmer. "Deception temperature. Okay?"

"Okay." He gripped her firmly. "Thanks."

The third bolt broke free; the fourth and last was no trouble. She repeated the trick with the second post. They both eyed the upper connections, eight feet off the floor.

"I can get on hands and knees. You can use me for a step stool," he suggested.

"I'd still be at full extension. If they're tight, I won't have any leverage."

"Dammit. They should have made you look like a sumo wrestler. Or put lead in your shoes." He looked at her. "Turn around." He placed his hands around her waist again and lifted her over his head. He was surprised; he'd expected her to be _somewhat_ heavier than a girl her size, but she felt like a child in his hands. He set her on his shoulders and moved his hands to the outside of her knees. "Better?"

"Yes." She reached for the first bolt; he braced himself against the torque until it broke free. While she spun it off, he glanced at his watch. "Not much time left."

"No. Four hours to cold shutdown."

"Four! What happened to a hundred and eighty?"

"That was a maximum, based on standby consumption; revised estimate based on current consumption." The second bolt fell to the floor. "You have to step around. I can't reach the last two from here."

He moved. "You lost a hundred seventy hours?"

"I've been out of low-power mode since you told me to sit up. I've been moving around. And now I'm warm."

He started to feel cold, himself. "What does that mean, exactly? Cold shutdown?"

"My power source loses the capacity to sustain itself and goes offline, and can't be restarted internally." The third bolt fell free. "The post may fall when the last bolt is freed."

"Wait. You just … shut off? _Dead?_"

"Nonfunctional. Inert. Static. Dead. We need to hurry." She twisted the last bolt free and dropped it; the post remained standing. "Next." He walked to the other post with her riding his shoulders, and she removed the last four bolts. He set her down. She pulled the steel post over, caught it neatly, and eased it to the ground. _Damn. Thing must weigh a thousand pounds._

"How long has it been since your last recharge, or whatever?"

"I last refueled six years, one month, six days ago." She repeated the stunt with the other post. "Safe to move now."

He thought about all those footprints. "How long," he asked, "have you been here?"

"Six years, one month, two days."

"Alone."

"Yes."

"And you just gave the last _week_ of your life to me. _Why?_"

Instead of answering right away, she looked around the dim, silent warehouse; at her endless tracks in the dust; finally, at him. "Nothing better to do."

Two hours later, the truck sat inside the warehouse, fully laden, its idling diesel filling the air with fumes and sound. The CIV sat on the flatbed under its tarp, along with the items he'd picked out that couldn't be stuffed inside the bird first – which wasn't much. The little robot had loaded gear into the plane that two men couldn't have handled; if she could get a grip on it or get her arms around it, she could carry it. He'd watched her waddle up the tail ramp with a piece of equipment the size of a refrigerator, reminding him of a cartoon ant. Two hours after they'd started, it was done, and he was ready to go. With very little luck, he'd reach his first cache point before dawn, and hole up until sunset; he'd be back home by tomorrow night.

He stood by the door of the truck, watching her finish securing the tarp to the flatbed. She glanced his way, and walked up. "You're ready to leave."

"I couldn't have done this without you."

She looked up at him. "That's not correct. Your success might not have been complete, but you would have left with something."

He offered her his hand. She stared at it. "Put your hand in mine." She did; he held it. "Thank you." Clearly, she had no idea what to do or say; after a moment, he let go. He swallowed. "Two hours to shutdown?"

She blinked. "Revision: eleven minutes."

_All that lifting. _"I could stay with you. Until the end."

"That would compromise your mission. If you leave soon, I'll be able to close the doors after you, and erase any evidence that links the removals to you."

He had a sudden urge to get rid of that scratchy, toneless buzz and hear her real voice. "Wait here." He climbed up into the cab and fetched down the water bottle with a single swallow remaining. "Here."

She stared at it without taking it. He unscrewed the cap and offered it again. "Lube up the pipes. Don't you want it?" She slowly reached for it, taking it very gently from his fingers. _You'd almost think she was afraid of it._

She looked around the warehouse. "I don't know."

He had a sudden urge to take her along; even if she switched off before they cleared the second gate, it would be better than leaving her here alone in the dark. "You can come with me," he said. "If you want."

She gazed at him silently, holding the bottle, for five seconds. Abruptly, she tossed the bottle's contents into her mouth and dropped it to the ground. She stood for another few seconds, working her mouth silently, and then spoke. "We should still close the door, to secure against casual observation." He was shocked by the change; she had a surprisingly deep voice for such a small girl, a warm contralto. A woman's voice. _She'd sound sexy, if her inflection didn't remind me of a voice mail system._

"So, you're coming with me?"

"Yes," she said. "I want to."

They were on their way in minutes; he hoped they could clear the compound, at least, before she turned into a lifeless doll. "How long until shutdown?" He asked, tense. He wondered if she'd start counting seconds when she got under a minute.

She was looking out all the windows at the dimly lit buildings, like a kid on holiday, or a dog; if he'd rolled down her window, he wouldn't have been surprised if she'd stuck her head out. "At present consumption, one hundred forty hours."

He almost stepped on the brakes. "What the hell! I thought you were down to minutes!"

"I was," she replied absently, still looking outward. "Then you gave me water."

"You burn _water_?"

"I don't think I burn it. But I convert it to power somehow."

"Um, you don't ... by any chance … produce oxygen as a byproduct, do you?" _Am I sitting next to a fusion reactor? Or an antimatter fuel cell? Or something only IO knows about? What kind of power does it take to make her lift 300-pound machines, or move so fast I can barely track her, or raise her body temp twenty degrees?_

"I don't know. In this mode, power generation is a small fraction of my water consumption. The larger part is used for lubrication. Some for my joints and eyes, but keeping my mouth and throat moist for speaking, mostly."

"And you ran for _six years _on one tank of water?"

"I didn't do any talking."

"So, as long as you've got water," he asked, "You can keep running?"

"Unless my power source fails for some other reason."

"Well, then," he said, as the truck passed the gate and left the compound behind, "I guess we're going to be together for a while."

February 2006

He didn't reach across the table for her hand, just stared at it; she withdrew it. "You know," she said to him, "when your job is the very reason for your existence, and you suddenly lose that purpose, it puts strange thoughts in your head. More coffee?"

"Huh. No, thanks." He had his hand wrapped around the mug, the handle unused. "I've had that feeling... from time to time. I wouldn't wish it on anybody. I didn't think of you as a person then, Anna; just a clever machine that might be of use to me if I needed an extra pair of hands, or someone to watch my back. I didn't discover how versatile you were until you started cleaning house."

February 2004

He opened the door to the beach house and stepped in; two steps into the house, he realized she hadn't followed. She hung back in the doorway, face impassive, eyes swiveling all around, as if she were following a fly.

"What's wrong?"

"New environment," she answered in her toneless voice. "Scanning for threats."

"Humph. This is my home. The most dangerous thing in here is you."

She stepped in. "That's not correct." She gave him one of her direct and guileless looks. "The most dangerous thing in here is you."

"Well, you certainly seem dangerous to _me_."_ And what was I thinking, bringing you here?_

"I'm not."

"You're not dangerous?"

"Not dangerous to you."

_You tried to kill me yesterday._ "Why not?"

She paused so long, he was ready to repeat the question. "I can't cause you harm."

"Why not?"

"I don't know how to explain."

_Do I dare take that at face value?_ He looked at her, shaking his head at his own uncertainty. _Come on, you made your decision in the warehouse; whatever she was before, she's a stray pup now. And you picked her up and brought her home. Teach her not to make messes in the house, and give her a quiet place of her own, and see what comes of it. _"Come along and I'll show you around. Let's start with the kitchen, cause it's the likeliest place for a disaster to start; it's all electric, so most of the power in the house runs through there." He led her into the spacious room. He pointed out the stove. "Don't touch those controls, especially; that machine's only for food preparation, and you can burn the house down with it." He wrinkled his brow. "Do you want anything? Still thirsty?"

She blinked. "Thirsty … yes. Water?"

"Sure." He stepped to the refrigerator, a huge restaurant-grade block of stainless steel.

"Is that for me?" She stared at the fridge.

"Well, you can use it, if you want to keep something cold." He opened the door, reached in for a half-liter bottle of water. He twisted off the cap and handed it to her. "Drink up."

She stared down into the bottle for a moment, and then touched it to her lips; then she upended it into her mouth. He watched her throat carefully, but saw no indication of swallowing; she might as well be pouring it into a drain. When the bottle was two-thirds empty, she stopped. "Full."

"Put the rest back then." He handed her the cap. She glanced inside it, then at the neck of the bottle. She twisted the cap on tight, opened the fridge, and replaced the bottle in the exact spot where it had been; he wasn't sure, but he thought the label was even facing the same direction as before. "If you want more, come back for it. Okay?"

"Okay." He turned towards the door, and she said, "I'll be a good girl, I promise."

He spun back. "_What_ did you say?"

In the same voice-mail-system voice, she said, "I promise to be a good girl and not break anything, or hurt anybody." She studied his face. "Are you pleased?"

"I'd be pleased if I thought you knew what you were saying. Do you know what a promise is?"

"Yes. A self-programmed subroutine."

"Hm. To you, I suppose. But there's more to it than that. How did you learn to make promises?"

"When Alistair let me out of my box, he always asked me to promise. Usually he wanted me to promise to be a good girl. When I promised, he seemed pleased, and let me out."

He felt hairs rising on his neck. "What kind of a box? Describe it."

"Primary material was stainless steel, thickness ten millimeters. A door with a combination lock. Inside dimensions were one hundred centimeters by eighty centimeters by one hundred sixty centimeters. Outside-"

"Stop. They locked you up in a _safe_?" _A reinforced gun safe; smaller than a phone booth. _"Who did this?" _Calm down. Appearances very much to the contrary, this isn't a girl. She didn't suffer; they probably could have stuck her in the bottom of a full swimming pool without doing her harm …_

"The research team: Alistair, Doctor Seabrook, Randall, Gunnery Sergeant Grissom."

"A Gunnery Sergeant?" _One of my troopers was part of this…_

"Yes. He pointed a rifle at me whenever I was out of the box. During testing."

_They must have been damned scared of her. I wonder if they had a better reason than I have._

"Did you ever hurt anybody?"

"Yes; I hurt Randall. He didn't come back after that."

"What happened?"

"Randall seemed to enjoy touching me. No one else ever did. Alistair told him that a real girl would kick him in the balls if he did that. So I did, because I wanted to be a good girl." She paused. "But Alistair didn't seem pleased."

_I suppose not. _"O-kay. Follow me, and I'll show you the rest of the house." He led her downstairs. "Utility room, den – that's mine, don't touch anything there without asking first. Okay?"

"Okay. I promise."

"Don't make any more promises until you know what a promise really is."

"What is a promise?"

He paused before he spoke. "It's a statement of intent. When you make a promise, you should intend to keep it."

"Keep it?"

He sighed. "You keep a promise … by making doing what you promise more important than almost anything else. So you never make a promise you can't keep. And always understand what you're promising; it's a commitment."

"Clearly define and communicate your statement of intent." she said. "Give execution top priority,"

"Exactly. Good. All right. Last room down here is the laundry." He looked her over; her clothes and all her exposed skin were filthy. "I don't see how I could get away with taking you into a store, but you need some new clothes. Those aren't fit to wear."

Before he realized what she was doing, she unzipped the black utility vest she was wearing and let it fall to the floor; the gray T-shirt underneath seemed reasonably clean except for the sleeves. She had a hand on the zipper of her pants before he grabbed her wrist and stopped her. "Whoa. You need to keep those on until we get replacements." He suddenly got a rattlesnake-in-the-bushes feeling when he realized his hand was on her arm. "You're not going to kick me in the balls, are you?"

"No." She looked directly up into his eyes. "I won't hurt you, ever. I promise."

He took a breath. "Well, good for me." _You can kill a man with a kick to the balls. Especially if the kicker can drive the kickee's balls into his sternum._

Upstairs again, he showed her the bedrooms. "You take this one. I'm right across the hall."

She took a step into the room, looked around, and stood facing the door, looking at him. He stepped back out, intending to show her the bathroom, but she didn't follow. "What are you doing?"

"Waiting for you to lock me in."

_Jesus. It's like dealing with an abused child. _"Listen to me. This is _your_ room. You come and go as you please. See this lock? It engages and disengages only from the inside. If you want to be alone, come in here and lock the door."

"It's not very secure. I could break it easily. You could break it easily."

"It's not meant to prevent forced entry. If someone wants to enter the room besides you, they knock, like this. If you don't mind letting them in, invite them; if you do, tell them, and whoever it is had better go away."

She stepped forward. He stepped back out of the doorway again to let her through, and she shut the door in his face. He heard the lock click. He smiled in spite of himself, and knocked on the door.

"I'm not letting you in."

"Fine, I'm going away. Come out when you feel like it." He took three steps toward the bathroom before he heard the door unlock. He turned, and she was standing in the open doorway. He went back to the door, and she shut it again. He knocked. She unlocked the door. "You can come in."

He opened the door. "How about if you come out? I've got more to show you."

He led her to the bathroom. "You look pretty grubby. If you clean up, I'll toss your clothes in the washer and find you something to wear till they're done. Then tomorrow I'll get you some clothes of your own."

She made no move to run water, just stared at the furnishings.

"Have you ever had a bath, or a shower? You know, get under the hot water and scrub?"

"I've been underwater three times during testing. The water temperatures were one, twenty-five, and one hundred degrees Celsius. There was no scrubbing."

_Deadly cold, room temp, and boiling._ "Well, pick your own temp, but hotter works better. _After _I leave this room, strip down, and pass your clothes out to me. Then get the shower running and soap up. The dirt rinses off with the soap."

"I don't understand." He couldn't blame her; the instructions didn't sound clear to _him_, and he _knew_ what he was talking about.

Instead, he showed her. He stepped into the shower, showed her how to turn it on and adjust the temp, and pantomimed putting soap on the rag and running it over her. "Then you stand under the water till you're rinsed clean, and you wipe yourself dry with the towel. Understand?"

"Yes."

"Okay. I'll be right back with something to wear when you're out."

It took him a lot longer than he expected; there was almost nothing in his wardrobe that wouldn't fall off her. Eventually, he knocked on the door.

"You can come in."

He started to, and stopped. "Are you decent?"

"I don't understand."

"Do you still have your clothes on?"

"No."

_Whew_. "In that case, I'll stay out here. Just open the door six inches and pass your clothes through." As soon as she handed them over, he passed a pair of cotton shorts and a sweatshirt through. "Not much selection, but it'll cover you, and the cord on the shorts should let you cinch them up tight. No undies, sorry."

"Undies?"

"Underwear, I mean."

"Under-wear?"

He looked at what she'd given him: shirt, pants, and boots. Period. _Shit_. He looked for tags on the shirt and pants; nothing. "I don't suppose you know what size you are, do you?"

"Without shoes, one hundred fifty-five centimeters."

"I mean clothing sizes. Shirt, pants, bra size."

"I don't understand."

An awful thought hit him. "Have you ever worn any clothing besides this?"

"No."

"When was the last time you took them off?"

"Seven years, one month, two days ago. Is that precise enough, or do you want minutes?"

"No. That's fine." _A stray pup would be easy compared with this._ "Just make sure you're clean and dressed when you come out."

He gathered an armful of dark clothes from the hamper and headed downstairs; he combined her clothes with a load of his own, added detergent and softener to the washer and started it. Then, he checked the filter on the dryer, and added a dryer sheet to the empty drum. He turned and saw her sitting on the steps, looking like a barefoot child in a grownup's clothes.

"What are you doing?"

"Watching you. Are you cleaning my clothes?"

"Yes. When they're washed, they go in here to dry." He indicated the dryer.

"Do you always service it before you use it?"

"How long," he asked, "have you been watching me?"

"Since you came down here. I followed you down the stairs."

He'd never heard or felt her tread; he was reminded that the … girl … was stealthy as hell; he'd best remember that. "I thought you were taking a shower."

"I did that before you brought me these."

He looked her over carefully. Some impulse made him run his fingers through the short blonde hair. "Next time, I'll show you the shampoo; you shouldn't use bar soap on your hair."

"Isn't it clean?"

"Yes, but shampoo'll keep it shiny. It looks and feels better that way."

"Okay."

"I'll put your things in the dryer in the morning. Right now, I'm off to bed." A thought occurred to him. "You don't sleep, I suppose."

"I have a standby mode, but I'm told it isn't the same as sleep, or 'sleep' mode on a computer." She blinked. "I've been spending most of my time on standby, to conserve power. Do you want me to switch off?"

He thought about getting up in the morning to find her standing in a corner, blank-eyed. "No. Before I go to bed, I'll show you the electronic babysitter."

"I don't understand."

There was a widescreen TV in the living room; he showed her how to use the remote, and handed it to her. "Just don't take what you see at face value; most of it isn't real. Good night."

In his bedroom suite, he showered quickly, with the last reserves of his energy. As he toweled off, he considered his sleepwear choices. He was damned if he was going to sleep in the buff with a strange female in the next room, even an ersatz one. He settled on a little-used pair of black silk pajama bottoms, climbed in, and drifted off immediately; if he hadn't been so wrung out, he would have been amazed at the apparent risk.

Some time later, he was wakened by a soft tapping at the bedroom door. He was fully awake and reaching under the pillow by the second tap. Instead of his automatic, his fingers touched the TV-remote shape of the scrambler; guess he hadn't been _that_ sleepy. His watch showed that he'd been in bed for three hours. "Who is it?"

"It's me," came her voice through the door. "It's Anna."

_Jesus. It never occurred to me she might have a name. Something odd about her voice?_ He flipped on the bedside lamp, lighting the bed warmly and washing the rest of the room in a dim glow. Instead of getting up, he sat up in bed, letting the sheet slide off his chest, but keeping his hand and the scrambler under the pillow. "Come in."

She came in, closed the door behind her, and approached to within a step of the bed; with him sitting up, they were almost eye to eye. It struck him again how much she looked like a child in his hand-me-downs: the shorts puffed around her hips like bloomers, and the shirt sleeves covered her knuckles. She looked at him gravely and said, "There are spooky noises outside."

A bark of laughter forced its way out. "Say _what_?"

"Am I using the word correctly? There are unidentified noises all around the house, at ranges of one to fifty meters. They keep tripping my alert mode, but I can't assess them as threats. What should I do?"

"Well, there are lots of critters stirring outside at this hour, but they're all harmless. Can you tell if the sounds come from human activity?"

"Yes … to a high probability. There are no human sounds."

"Then I'd say you can disregard them. If you hear human sound within ten meters of the house, wake me. Just come in, don't bother to knock."

"Okay." For one bizarre moment, he thought she might ask to climb in with him, like a scared kid. Instead, she stared at the scars on his body. It was unnerving, and made him want to pull the sheet up to his chin. "You're damaged."

He shook his head. "It's just the way I look. The damage repairs itself. Everything works."

She took a step closer; her knees touched the mattress. "The damage to your eye is functional. Don't you need two?"

"No. It's handy for judging distance and such, but …" He searched for an appropriate word, "It's redundant. You can learn to do without it." She stared for another moment, as if fascinated, and he was certain she was about to reach out and touch him. Then she turned halfway towards the door, and paused.

She looked at him. "I'm not like other girls, am I?"

He thought he felt his heart stop. _Her voice – the inflection is different; she doesn't sound like a machine anymore._ "I don't know how to answer that, besides a simple 'no'."

"Okay. Good night." She reached the door, opened it, paused, and said over her shoulder, "Sweet dreams." The latch clicked as the door shut behind her.

Sleep was a _long_ time coming back.

He awakened, instantly alert as usual, and smelled coffee. He looked at his watch: seven AM, six hours after he'd hit the rack. He didn't remember setting up the coffee maker; in fact, he was _sure_ he hadn't. His senses began to register other long-forgotten signs of shared occupancy: the occasional clatter in the kitchen, a murmur that must be the television. He got up, briefly considered shuffling out in his jammies to investigate, then decided to do a quick morning toilet and dress first.

In the kitchen, he found a disturbingly domestic scene: she was standing at the counter with her back to him, still dressed in his sweats, watching over the toaster with a butter knife in her hand. The coffee maker was just finishing up. Without turning, she said in a sunny tone, "Good morning, sir. Did you sleep well?" Two slices popped up; she removed them, applied butter, and set them on a small plate.

"_What_ did you call me?"

She turned to him, plate in hand. "I called you 'sir': a form of address appropriate to an employer, military superior, or some other person from whom you take orders. Correct?"

"Um, yes." He squashed an impulse to tell her to call him Jack; things were getting cozy _way_ too fast around here. "So you're taking my orders?"

"It seems reasonable. So does making myself useful." Her bare feet made absolutely no sound as she crossed the tile floor to set the plate down in front of his usual chair. "Will you sit and eat? How do you drink your coffee?"

"Black. How did you know to make coffee? Anna, you seem very … different today."

"More like you, you mean?" She opened the cupboard and reached up, standing on the balls of her feet. _Great legs for such a short girl: trim, round thighs, nice clean hollows at the back of the knee, nicely tapered calves, slender ankles. _He mentally shook himself. _That's not a girl's anatomy you're admiring, it's sculpture. Still, if there was a real girl they modeled her on, I'd like to meet her. The boys at the lab must have got their rocks off building this one._ Somehow, he wasn't surprised to see her select his favorite mug. She filled it, and it joined the plate at the table. She looked up at him expectantly; he sat.

"I'm a liability to you until I can learn how to act like other people," she said. "For example, you were wary of taking me to a store for clothes, which must be a commonplace event." She nodded towards the TV room. "So I've been schooling myself."

"By watching _TV_?"

"One hundred forty-seven channels. However, I'm only watching the thirty-one channels that seem to suit my present needs. I can watch several at once by limiting my visits to a few minutes at a time." He heard the set change programs.

"I didn't know you could set it to scan channels."_ God, she learns fast._

"It doesn't; I'm changing them."

"How?" There was no remote in her hand.

"I have a built-in infrared transmitter; it's part of my C3 suite, along with a wideband radio, encryption equipment, and a GPS system, including a transponder."

His blood turned cold. "Has anyone queried it? The GPS, I mean."

"Never. In fact, the transmitter is physically disabled, and has been since I went live."

His near-panic subsided, replaced by curiosity. "Why would they build something like that into you, and then disable it?"

She blinked. "I don't know. The transmitter would only have responded to a properly coded query. I can only conclude that it was done to hide me from someone who's looking for me."

"_IO_ is hiding you from someone?"

She nodded. "So it would seem." The channel changed again. "The most useful programming seems to be identified on the guide as 'drama' or 'sitcom'. Your warning that most of it wasn't real was all I needed to identify these programs as hypothetical situations, with the participants' responses exaggerated for clarity. I use your reactions in similar situations as a check, so I have some idea how much to tone it down; I'm counting on you to correct me if I make an inappropriate response." She looked down at his cup. "Taste your coffee, and tell me if I've got it right. The instructions on the can included a two-scoop margin; splitting the difference brought the level in the basket even with the oil residue."

He sipped. "It's okay, but a little weaker than I like. Another half scoop would do it."

She nodded. "Noted. As for how I knew about coffee and toast, I've been examining your house. You have plates in your cupboard for eight, but only the top two show any sign of wear." She looked at his mug. "Likewise your coffee mug, and the seat you're in. You live alone, so all the food in the house is yours. I found an opened can of coffee in the fridge, bread in the breadbox, and a toaster on the counter with crumbs in the pan. So, you probably have toast and coffee for breakfast. Eggs too," she added, "but I couldn't guess how you eat them, and besides, you told me not to touch the stove."

"I may have been hasty. I wasn't expecting you to cook for me."

She said, "Don't worry, baby. I'll take good care of you." She tousled his hair.

Shock made the mug twitch in his hand, nearly slopping coffee over the rim. "What the hell was _that_?"

She looked at him attentively, a student awaiting instruction. "An inappropriate response?"

"Hell, yes. Not enough to trip any alarms, but enough to raise eyebrows. We don't… have the kind of relationship that would make it appropriate."

"You touched my hair last night."

"I was examining it. Not… playing with it."

"Touching someone's hair is play?"

He looked into his coffee cup. "Yes. Sometimes." He glanced up to see her still watching him. "I'm not going to explain it. It's got nothing to do with us."

She nodded. "Okay. I often have more than one possible response to a given hypothetical, but not enough data to choose the best one. There are some things TV doesn't teach, and analyzing human behavior well enough for mimicry takes a surprising amount of processing power. Alternate response." Her voice took a mildly aggrieved tone. "Sir, I'm not stupid; the principle of this machine is as straightforward as can be. The controls are simple and clearly marked. It's as easy as the washer and dryer, and _much_ easier than the TV." She paused. "Well?"

"Better. Much."_ But if both those responses are equally valid to her, are they both true?_

"I washed and dried all your clothes, but I put them back in the empty hamper. I'm guessing there's a final step to perform on them, but I don't know what it is; I don't think they all get hung in the closet."

"Some of them need folded and put in drawers. If everything's through the wash, where are _your_ clothes? Why are you still in those?"

She was slow answering. "I didn't want to change. Do I have to?"

_Are those old rags really the first change of clothes she's ever had? _"You do if you want to leave the house. Those are okay to wear at home, but definitely not acceptable in public."

She looked thoughtful. "So, this is home now?"

He felt trapped. _Easy, boy; you did not just invite a girl you met two nights ago to move in with you, it just looks that way. _"Yes, at least until you find one of your own, something you like better. But if you want to go shopping today, you'll have to wear that other outfit one more time."

She nodded. "Okay."

"And you're going to have to hide your abilities, not draw attention. Do you know how strong and fast you are, compared to people like me?"

"Is that a rhetorical question, or do you want data?" She removed a jar of preserves from the refrigerator, gripped the top, twisted her wrist without turning the lid, and presented it to him. "Do this for me?"

Absently, he twisted it open with a slight effort, and started to hand it back before he realized what she'd done. "Very good."

"Thank you." She looked down at him. "On TV, the man usually can't get it open either. More?"

The plate and mug were both empty. _When did I do that? _"More coffee, please."

As she poured it in, bending over him, she said, "This is very strange."

"_You_ think this is strange? What about this situation do _you_ think is strange?"

"Speaking without being ordered to; asking questions." She lifted an eyebrow. "Just talking to someone, really. What's strange about it to you?"

"What isn't?" He sipped his coffee. "They did a very good job of making you look like flesh-and-blood, and now you're doing a pretty good job of acting like one; it's unsettling."_ I was right about her voice; normally inflected, she sounds sexy as hell. A good way to lower the guard of any male._ "You know, when a man wakes up to find a girl in his kitchen that he didn't know two days before, dressed in his clothes and making breakfast, it's usually preceded by a very different sort of night." _Why did you say that? Now you're going to have to try to explain one night stands to this creature?_

"Oh. You were expecting sex last night?"

He almost dropped his cup. "Huh?"

"Sex; intercourse; scoring; getting lucky. What will I need to do? I'll need instruction. The television doesn't provide much detail, at least not on the free channels."

"_No!_" He looked up at her. "Listen carefully, Anna. Whatever you think you owe me, whatever … duties you may feel obligated to perform, that isn't one of them. Ever. Got it?"

She nodded. "Okay. Can we still be friends?"

That afternoon, Lynch took his guest shopping at a local mall. By the time they got back home, he felt exhausted. "Well,_ that_ could've gone better." He dropped into the couch. "Two hours in women's stores and I feel like I've been trying to buy Stingers back from the mujahidin."

"Didn't we get everything we went for?" She set the perimeter alarm as she entered the house, bags in hand. He didn't bother asking how she'd acquired a code.

"And more. Don't take back what doesn't fit. Just remember the sizes for next time. _Lord!_"

"I don't understand why you're so upset. I already tried on most of this clothing; the only items we had to guess at were under-wear, which can't be returned anyway. I thought the trip was successful."

"The problem with the bras and panties was unexpected, is all; I guess my ignorance was showing, and it ticked me off."

"Sir, you don't wear bras and panties, do you?"

"What kind of question is _that_?"

"I'll take that as a no. So, how would you know that you can't try them on before you buy them? And if the sales girl is there to help, why didn't we ask _her_?"

"Because it would have been suspicious. I don't see how a woman could get to be your apparent age without knowing her underwear sizes, so we had to pretend to be buying for someone else. I didn't want to stress her any more. She was nervous already. I'm sure they don't get many one-eyed men escorting girls in BDUs. Why were you _staring_ at her like that?"

"I was observing. She's the first female I've met."

"Eh?"

"The researchers were all male; the only other person I've met is you. The women I saw on TV last night don't count, because I had no one real to compare them to." She fished a plain white brassiere out of the bag and held it up, looking at him. "I still don't understand why I have to wear one of these. There are no pockets, and it doesn't cover anything that a shirt doesn't already; likewise the panties. I suppose that's why they call them under-wear?"

Suddenly the couch didn't feel as comfortable; he shifted and cleared his throat. "Well, there are hygienic reasons for the panties, but … well, by convention, a woman's breasts are supposed to be … a certain shape, and positioned a certain way on her chest; a bra sort of molds them and holds them, if you catch my drift."

"So, it's an esthetic consideration, like cosmetics."

He latched on to the idea. "Yes! It's not strictly functional, but it's widely agreed that it makes a woman more attractive."

"Hm." She examined it with a frown. "I suppose it would make more of a difference if my breasts were larger; I doubt this vest will change my appearance at all." She stuffed it into the bag and headed down the hall, towards her room. "I'll be back shortly to fix dinner, sir."

She returned in a few minutes, wearing his castoff shorts and sweatshirt. "So, what would you like?"

"I'd like to know why we went to the store, if you're going to keep wearing that outfit."

She blinked. "You said this was okay to wear at home."

"Well, sure, but you don't have to. That getup fits you like a tent. If you like it, we can get one in your size."

"No." She shook her head. "I prefer this one."

"God's sakes. What is it about it that you like so much?"

She hesitated briefly, and then said, "It used to be yours, and now it's mine. That's what I like about it." She turned towards the kitchen. "So, what will you eat? Shall I surprise you?"

"As if you don't do that every ninety seconds."

Two hours later, he stepped out of the shower and toweled off, feeling strangely relaxed and lethargic. He had a hundred things left to do to complete his exit from IO, but, rather than feeling pushed to check some items off his list, he wanted nothing more than to take his full belly to bed. Not only had he been running short of sleep for days; Anna had been watching cooking shows, and found ingredients in the kitchen for a late feast. _She keeps this up, I'll have to add a mile to my daily run,_ he thought.

His bed had been made.

Usually he made his bed in the morning before he left the bedroom, but he'd been so anxious about what was going on in the rest of the house he'd forgotten. He reached under the pillow and touched the scrambler; he drew it out and saw the charge indicator light glowing green.

The indicator light built into the firing stud had three colors: it changed from green to yellow at two-thirds charge, and from yellow to red at one-third, flashing just before it changed colors or went dead. When he'd come back from his foraging expedition, the indicator had been solid yellow.

The scrambler's sixteen-hour charger was still plugged into the wall by the nightstand, but he hadn't used it. She'd come in to make his bed, found the scrambler – possibly the only Anna-lethal weapon in the house - topped off the charge, and put it back.

He heard a tap at the door. The pajama bottoms were nowhere in sight, so he jumped into bed and pulled the sheet over. He opened the drawer of the nightstand, dropped the scrambler in, and shut it_ At least she's here before I fall asleep this time_. "Come in, Anna."

She entered and shut the door behind her, wearing only a bra and panties. "These seem to be the best fit. What do you think?"

"What?" Her body was as realistic as her face and hands and legs; trim and almost athletic. Her skin was perfect, and so smooth it nearly gleamed in the dim light. Incongruously, he noticed they'd given her an innie. _Only reasonable, I suppose._ He scrambled up in bed and drew his knees up. "They're fine. Go finish dressing."

She cocked her head. "What's wrong?"

"You need to put something else on; it's not 'decent'."

Her brows gathered. "_This _is a curious reaction. I thought 'not decent' meant 'not wearing any clothes.'"

"Chrissakes. You're still half naked. You can't go walking around the house like that."

"I've seen women in swim suits that cover less and men don't get disturbed by seeing them. At least, not like this. Is it because it's under-wear, and it's not under? You're blushing."

"Yes. Now, just … shoo, okay?"

She stared at the sheet that covered him. "I can see in infrared; your face isn't the only place where you have blood gathering. Doesn't that mean you want sex now?"

"Reflex be _damned!_" He exploded. "Anna, wasn't I clear about that the other night?"

"Very clear. Emphatic."

"Well?"

She shifted her gaze from the sheet to his face. "In my very limited experience, when people talk about sex, they often say one thing and mean another." Without another word, she turned to the door and left.

All traces of lassitude were gone now; he was sure he wouldn't sleep for a while. He decided to dress and do something, if he could stuff himself into a pair of pants. He threw the sheet off and swung his legs over just as the door opened and she stuck her head in. He whipped the sheet back over his lap.

"I came back to say, 'Sweet dreams, sir.' Should I have knocked?"

"Every time, Anna. Every single time."

"Noted." Then, without a trace of humor, as if she were uttering some secret password, she said, "Woo hoo. _Baby_." She was gone.

February 2006

"Canceling my previous instructions freed me to discover my own interests. I enjoy life more as a housekeeper than a war machine. I _like_ having a family."

The brooding, introverted look was back. "Don't get too attached to something you can lose so easily, Anna. It hurts... a _lot._ I don't know if I could afford another family."

"Sir, you have a family right now. Bobby is still sorting out his feelings for you, but he's coming around. Sarah's an enigma, but she'll put her life on the line for you right alongside Eddie and Roxanne. And as for Caitlin, I think she-"

"Don't go there, Anna."

"But sir, she -"

"NO, Anna. The subject is closed to discussion." He pushed the mug away. "Sorry. I know. But it's flat out impossible, and I just don't feel like going into the reasons tonight."

She stood up, the intimacy of the moment broken. "I think I should do some work on the security system tomorrow. Sensor Three needs to be moved uphill somewhat - it picks up a lot of surface scatter off the ocean when it's windy."

"Anything else?" He knew his rebuff had stung her, she could tell; but he felt helpless to do anything about it._ I've seen entirely too much helplessness, and grim despair, in this man's voice and posture lately for my comfort._

"The data search for the children's biological families seems futile without Ivana's access codes. The Operations database tells me everything IO is doing or learning to catch the kids, but every search into their original discovery dead ends into Research Directorate. I need -"

An alarm from the security system tripped inside her skull; she froze as nothing organic could, and queried the system. Quick as a snake, Lynch's hand was on the butt of his holstered sidearm, alerted only by her sudden stillness. "What is it?"

"Wait one ... All clear. A faint signature, resembling a stealthed helicopter. The second sweep resolved it into a flock of gulls over the water."

He took his hand off his weapon. "Anna, move that sensor _tonight_."

She turned slowly back to him. "Are they really so close?"

John Lynch, former Director of Operations for IO, the perennial cool operator, put his elbows on the table and covered his eyes with his hands. "I've tried so hard to give these kids a normal life, keep them together, keep them sane ...while hiding them from the most powerful and ruthless secret organization in history. The bastards are never, _ever_ going to stop looking. As hard as I try to cover our tracks, I know I've missed things. I'm running out of blind alleys to lead them down. My friends at IO have stuck their necks out as far as I dare let them. It's just a matter of time."

"Time is all we've ever had, sir. They've been hot on our trail half a dozen times, and half a dozen times you've lost them." She put her hands on the table and leaned far over towards him. "You're smarter than they'll ever be; if what you've been doing isn't working any more, you'll come up with something else. As long as we have you, they'll _never _catch us." _But how much longer will we have him? He's been doing this nonstop for two years now. He's wearing down, constantly stressed and losing sleep. He drinks too much when he's home. God knows what danger he's in when he's away. He never goes unarmed anymore, not even inside the house, and he jumps at birds' shadows. He needs a break, some little respite; but keeping us out of IO's clutches is a full-time job, and none of us except him has the skill or connections to manage it. How can I help him?_

February 2004

"Anna, I need to talk to you."

"Talk away, sir. My ears are yours." She continued to pull laundry out of the dryer and into the basket, her back to him.

"Things are about to change around here. I need to be sure you understand. Do you mind stopping that, so I know I've got your attention?"

"I'm quite attentive. Your heart rate is sixty-two beats per minute, respirations twelve. You've eaten in the last five hours; your blood sugar is at acceptable levels. By the sound of your step, I'd guess you're almost due for a new pair of shoes. Stress indicators show a slightly elevated state of emotion, cause unknown." The drum was empty; she set the basket on top of the dryer, shut the door, and turned to face him. "What's on your mind?"

"I'm quitting my job, and taking on another one."

She blinked. "Will we have to move?"

"Not soon, if ever. But … I'm bringing some people to stay with us. I don't know how long. Months, maybe longer." He watched her closely. "They're kids, young adults. They'll probably be feeling pretty shocky, and not ready for any more surprises."

"So I'll need to pass for human with them. Do you think I'm ready?"

"No stranger would ever guess. But they're going to be sharing our roof; the slightest … aberration is going to arouse suspicion. Like that outfit," he said, indicating her hand-me-down sweats. In the week she'd been sharing the house with him, she'd done some tailoring to the outfit. The neck of the shirt was open now, and hung off one shoulder like a peasant blouse, and she'd cut the sleeves off short; he wasn't sure what she'd done to the shorts, but they looked more like a skirt now, worn low on her slender hips. But they were still obviously a man's castoffs.

"Yes. If someone sees me in these, they'll think it peculiar. I suppose I need some new clothes."

"I already have some. Come upstairs to the kitchen."

Upstairs, he pulled an outfit out of a box on the kitchen table, and held it up for inspection. "There are two more just like it. Recognize it?"

She didn't touch it. "It looks like a maid's outfit."

"Correct."

She looked from the dress to him. "I'm waiting."

"It's an acceptable explanation for you being in the house, without any … romantic attachments. And as a uniformed employee, you can put some social distance between you and my houseguests. They're less likely to ask personal questions, and it won't be rude if you choose not to answer."

"I see. I'll need to wear this all the time, then?"

"Employees get days off. You'd be expected to wear street clothes when you're not on the clock."

"'On the clock.'"

"Yeah," he said slowly. "That's something else we need to discuss. You've been making my life pretty easy around here, feeding me and taking care of all the household chores. Do you think you could do it for a houseful of people?"

"I don't see a problem, sir. Do kids and young adults pose any special challenges?"

"Lord, yes. They'll probably be messier than I am at my worst; I can't guess how they'll get along; they may be fussy eaters. Yeah, there may be problems."

"Then I'll study up on it right away. How much time do I have?"

"I don't know," he said slowly. "I'm guessing six to eight weeks, no more. But when the time is right, I'll have to move suddenly; you may not get any warning before I bring them home. You'll understand why after you've studied this." From under the box, he drew out a thick manila envelope. "This is a brief on a dirty little IO secret called the Genesis Project."

"Don't worry, sir. I'll get started right away. I'll be ready."

"Thanks, Anna. This means a lot to me." He caught her eye. "There's another thing. Up until now, we've had something of a cozy domestic partnership. You help out as you please, and I don't make any demands. But if you're going to take care of a bunch of strangers at my request … well, you deserve more compensation than a roof over your head and a place to hide; you should be drawing wages."

"Wages," she said. "As in money?"

"Yes. You remember getting your picture taken in the basement two days ago?"

"Of course."

From under the box, he drew another large manila envelope and handed it to her. "This is a complete set of ID: birth certificate, Social Security card, passport, school transcripts, tax returns, resume and work history, driver's license, the works. It'll all pass scrutiny by law enforcement; it's as real as anybody's, as far as the databases are concerned. I'll teach you to drive, so you can shop without me – or do you know already?"

"No."

_Or, at least, not until she gets the wheel in her hands; then I suppose she'll discover she's Mario Andretti._

"Okay. You also have a checkbook and a savings passbook. Starting this month, you're officially my employee. Your first month's salary is already deposited, and you'll get the same each month, automatically."

She looked at the paperwork. "'Anne Devereaux?'"

"Yeah." He smiled. "Couldn't resist the idea of a French maid."

"Zen, weel I heff to wirrk on my accen', missyoo?"

He snorted. "Hardly; you're saucy enough. You add a French accent to that Kathleen Turner voice of yours, I'll have to keep the boys in straightjackets."

"Do I need to tune my voice to a different range?" Her voice was two octaves higher; she sounded like a little girl. "That's just my default setting."

"Whoa, too much. Right now, you sound about eight years old. I didn't know you could do that." Her chirpy voice, together with the voluminous clothes, made him think of her as a precocious child again for the first time in days.

She nodded. "Just a matter of compressing or expanding the frequency." Now she sounded like a girl in her twenties. "On TV, actresses seem able to change their perceived ages by altering their registers."

"So you can imitate other people's voices?"

"There's more to the individual human voice than its register; my pattern of hisses and buzzes isn't any different. Then again, register is a voice's most noticeable characteristic. I suppose I could claim to be someone else on the phone without raising suspicion, so long as my frequency, inflection, and vocabulary matched the subject's."

"Hm. This is the first time you ever really sounded like a normal twenty-something girl to me."

"If you thought there was something wrong with my voice, you should have told me sooner."

"There's _nothing_ wrong with it; in fact, I like it, very much. But it's … seductive. And teenage boys are up to their eyebrows in hormones; they might think you're coming on to them."

She gave him an appraising look. "But _you_ like it." Her voice was deep and sultry again.

He grinned. "A man doesn't have to be a teenager to appreciate a pretty girl with a bedroom voice. Let's look over the bank stuff."

She looked at the bank balance. "Eight thousand, three hundred thirty-five dollars."

"Plus all withholdings. Need to do it by the book to stay under the radar, and add some detail to your ID."

"What should I do with it?"

"Anything you like. Once you get used to spending money, you won't have any trouble finding things to do with it."

"Okay." She slipped everything back in the envelope. "Thank you." She gathered the box and envelopes and headed towards her room.

"Believe me, at a hundred grand a year I'm getting a bargain. I wouldn't dare let strangers in here to do what you do."

She looked over her shoulder at him. "I don't mean about the money," she said. "For telling me I'm pretty."

February 2006

Suddenly he lowered his hands and looked up from the table at her with a face that would give her goose bumps if her physical makeup permitted it: the face of a man considering hard choices and uncertain outcomes. She had seen that look more and more often when he looked at her lately. He was studying her, as intently as she was studying him. A suspicion formed in her mind; when he gently reached for her hands against all custom, she quickly snatched them away, straightened, and turned her back to him. "Whatever drastic, irrevocable thing you're considering, don't. If it's what I think it is, especially."

"What would that be?" His voice sounded strange; the air felt charged, somehow, like the precursor to a thunderstorm; some reflexive attribute of his Gen-factor, like the way Caitlin's skin got rock-hard, or Sarah's hair started floating around her head. It felt menacing. She remembered the look on his face that night years ago when she was five steps from dismembering him and her life had suddenly changed forever.

"The scrambler is a blunt tool. It was just blind chance that my motor control program tripped out before my boot file; you might not be so lucky a second time. If you use it again, chances are you won't change me … you'll lose me."

She heard the chair scrape back, heard him step around the table towards her. If she'd wanted to, she could hear his breathing, his pulse; if she'd wanted to, she could hear him draw the scrambler from his coat pocket, hear the creak of tendons as his hand squeezed the trigger. She kept her sensitivity to human levels and turned slowly towards him, forcing the issue, yet giving him plenty of time.

His arms were folded across his chest, the hands in plain sight and empty. "And how do I want to change you? You think you've got me all figured out, do you?"

"Ever since we met, I've been observing you. I was designed to learn fast, and I have diagnostic tools a doctor would envy. I can hear your pulse and respiration; analyze voice stress for emotion or deception." She glanced meaningfully at the meal on the table. "I can surmise general health and blood sugar levels from the way you carry yourself, and I can detect fatigue poisons and other chemicals coming through your skin. I know when you're lying or angry or confused, when no one else on earth can guess what's on your mind. You're thinking about the day when IO comes for us, and despite all your precautions, you know our first real warning will probably be when they're smashing in the door. To have any chance of getting away, you need a formidable rear guard, a diversion, and some way of instantly erasing any traces of your escape. You need an expendable war machine with a bomb between her boobies. So you think you need to make me a robot again."

March 8 2004

Twenty-five days after Mr. Lynch had presented her with a checkbook, she was tidying the house, expecting company. Mr. Lynch had called the day before, as agitated as she'd ever heard him, telling her that her company was arriving ahead of schedule. Early in the afternoon, half a day later than predicted by her employer, she heard an automobile idling at the curb in front of the house; not through her own ears, but fed to her through the remote mike she'd hooked up at the mailbox. She increased sensitivity, and heard voices inside the car.

"Kat, are you sure we've got the right address? This sure isn't my idea of a secret hideout." A young man's voice, not deep, but rich and well modulated. _A very expressive voice,_ she thought. _This boy says what he thinks, even when he doesn't mean to. I'll bet he's Mr. Lynch's son._

"Maybe that's the idea. The directions were perfectly clear, and the keypad combination he gave us opened the gate." A girl, young, but with a resonant voice that would fill a room if she shouted. "This is the place, Bobby."

"Oh, wow," said another girl; her voice was high, clear, and musical. "It's like something out of a movie. Terrazzo driveway and walks. _Palm trees_. The front yard looks the size of a football field. Is this guy rich, or what?"

She directed the center garage door to open, and hurried outside.

"Somebody's coming out." It was a second male voice, somewhat hoarse and foghorn deep. "I think we're in the wrong place, Red. That's somebody's housekeeper. Probably called the cops on us already."

She smiled to herself. _I haven't met them yet; I don't even know what they look like, and I like them already._ Mr. Lynch often made shrewd guesses based on incomplete data, which he called 'hunches' or 'intuition'; it seemed a useful skill, if she could develop it. Before she looked, she closed her eyes for a few milliseconds and let her first impressions of the newcomers come to her mind. Bobby would be a younger version of his father, brown of hair and eye; she imagined his hair long, with a reddish tinge, and bound up in a tail. _He'll have an artistic temperament, I think._ The girl Kat should have a physical presence to match her voice: tall, stocky, and mannish in appearance, with short blonde hair._ She'll be the leader, if they have one._ The second girl's sunny tone seemed to go with freckles and pigtails; she would be the youngest. _Their mascot, the one the others watch out for._ The pessimist with the deep voice would be the oldest, someone the others looked to for advice. _He seems the thoughtful type. _She opened her eyes.

An aged sedan was stopped across the end of the driveway. She could see two figures in front: a redheaded girl driving, with a blond boy sitting beside her. _Kat and Bobby. _She could make out two more youngsters in the back seat. _Oh, well, it was just a fancy. _She stood inside the garage and beckoned urgently.

"Hey, she's waving us in." The deep male voice, which she was now sure was coming from the back seat. The car backed up a few feet, then moved forward and turned in. As the car entered the garage, she ordered the door to close behind it.

The driver unfolded herself from the car, and they looked each other over briefly. _Well, I was only half wrong about this one; she certainly has size and presence, but she belongs in one of those lingerie commercials I sometimes see on television, not a bodybuilder competition._ She was fully two meters tall, with a striking face and figure, and crowned with a head of red-gold hair that shone like copper. She wore a track outfit, grey pants and jacket with a white shirt that rode up past her navel; the bottom edge of the shirt and unzipped jacket hung well forward of her flat stomach._ I wonder if she needs a brassiere to hold them and mold them._ Her bright emerald eyes took in Anna's outfit in turn. "You're not Mrs. Lynch, I'm guessing."

"Hardly, miss; Mister Lynch never remarried. You're Kat, _I'm_ guessing. I'm Anna, the housekeeper." The others were getting out, looking at her. She regarded the tall blond boy, dressed in jeans, a white tee, and a flannel shirt with sleeves rolled up his forearms. "You must be Bobby. You don't have your father's hair or eyes, but you have the same strong face."

He flushed slightly. "About the only thing I got from him."

"Well, I know my opinion is based on slight acquaintance, but I'm inclined to disagree." The other two kids were out of the car. _I couldn't have been farther off the mark with these two, could I? _The boy was young, quite short, and built like a troll, with huge hands and a bodybuilder's physique; although he was dressed like Bobby, his rumpled clothes looked like they'd been raided from a donation box. His eyes had a distinct Asian cast, and his hair was brown, chin-length, and slightly disarrayed. _He doesn't look like the sort of person anyone would go to for advice._ The other girl stepped out of the car. She was about the younger boy's height but with an almost willowy figure, and she didn't look like anybody's idea of a mascot. She wore a black leotard with a short leather skirt and matching jacket; her jet hair was cut too short for pigtails, and she'd applied purple dye to the strands that framed her face. On television, young girls dressed in such a manner were invariably troublesome and rebellious. "Now, who might you be?"

The boy stuck his hand out. "Grunge."

She blinked. "Beg pardon?" She glanced behind her, but of course the garage was spotless.

The girl giggled as she shook her head; the sound fell on Anna's ears like the tinkling of chimes. "He's got this thing about Kurt Cobain. Call him Eddie. I'm Roxanne." She thumped his shoulder with her fist. "I thought _I_ was the only one who called you that."

She looked from one to another. Roxanne was keeping well inside Eddie's personal space; they would scarcely have been closer together in a closet. Bobby and Kat were separated by a distance that suggested friendship rather than intimacy, but they might just be reserved in front of a stranger. "Boys and girls, this house only has three extra bedrooms. Two of you are going to have to share. So, at the risk of sounding nosy, how many couples am I looking at here?"

Kat drew away from Bobby, flushing. "God, no." She turned to Bobby and flushed harder. "Sorry. I didn't mean … you know."

The corner of Bobby's mouth twitched. "No problem, Kat."

"You're a nice guy, you know, any girl would be lucky to have you …"

He looked up at the ceiling. "Jeez, quit it. You're embarrassing me."

Eddie eyed Roxanne; his mouth opened, just as she said quickly, "Bunk with me, Kat?"

The tall redhead looked at Eddie as if she were sighting a gun. "Absolutely."

"You gotta bunk with me anyway, bro," said Bobby. "Sarah's gonna need her own room."

"Sarah?"_ They were all supposed to arrive together._

"We have one more coming," said Kat. "I hope."

"I see. Well, come inside, and I'll show you around. The bedrooms all have twin beds, so that's no problem. Do you have anything to take out of the car?"

"All we own is what we're wearing," Kat said. "Mr. Lynch gave us some cash before we split up, or else …" She paused, unsure of how much to say.

"Or else you'd be showing up in those fancy prison coveralls you wore at the Project," Anna finished for her. She watched them trade glances. "Yes, I know something of it, though not all, I'm sure. I don't suppose Mr. Lynch expects you to keep secrets from me." _And how long can I share their secrets without giving up some of my own? I doubt I'll keep these kids at arm's length with a maid's outfit for long._ She led them into the house proper.

Her guest's heads swiveled around as they surveyed the interior. Eddie whistled softly. "Place is an art museum. Doesn't seem like the L-man's style. I was expecting a lot of photos of guys in uniform with M-16s, maybe a bowl of grenades on the coffee table."

"He does have a few such photos in his study. But the rest of the house is more refined."

"Are these originals?" Kat touched the frame of a painting, not daring to lay a hand on the work itself. "I'm sure I've seen this one in a book somewhere."

"_Monsignor's Garden_, Joel Lieberman, nineteen twenty-eight," Eddie said automatically. At Kat's surprised glance, he said, "Hey, so I read it too."

"Sure it's original." Bobby's mouth was drawn into a line. "Looks like he's trying to buy some respectability. Or maybe laundering his money by buying art."

"Mr. Lynch seems quite knowledgeable," Anna said. "I think he buys these things because he likes them." She led them towards the kitchen. Looking back to make sure they were following, her gaze took in their sizes and coloration. "You're rather a diverse group."

"We'll be a lot more diverse when Sarah gets here," Eddie said. "She's our token _everything_." Bobby's face clouded at the remark as Eddie turned towards the sliding glass door in the kitchen. "_Dang_. I knew we were near the water, but I didn't know we were on the _beach_."

"Yes. All the properties on this side of the street are. The ground rises a little towards the back of the lot, so you can't see the beach from the street. Pretty view, isn't it?"

"Why a pool in the back yard, when you've got all that to swim in?"

"First, believe it or not, the water's rather chilly for much of the year. Second, you may get tired of immersing yourself in salt water. Third, the pool's more convenient. If you walk the beach, you'll see a pool in every back yard. Though I don't know why Mr. Lynch has one; he never uses it."

"Where's Mr. Lynch now?" Kat jumped in.

"On his way. I'm expecting him in less than ten minutes."

She would be talking to him before he arrived; the first thing she'd bought with her wages had been a top-end FM transceiver, consisting of an ear bud no bigger than a hearing aid and a mike that could be clipped to one's collar or worn on a Velcro wristband. He'd accepted it with a trace of amusement, and didn't seem surprised when she told him that she'd linked it to the one in her skull. It was low-power and short-range to avoid detection, but she thought he should be in reach by now. While the kids explored the bedrooms, she opened com.

[Can you hear me, sir?]

[Loud and clear. I'm coming up on the gate now.]

[Be advised, only the number-three garage bay is unoccupied.]

[Our guests have arrived, I take it?]

[All but one, I think. Were you expecting Sarah?]

[She _didn't_.]

[Not with the others. Bobby thinks she's coming later, but Kat doesn't seem so sure. Do you know where she is?]

[I'm betting she detoured to her family's place on the reservation. Dammit.]

[Reservation? I don't understand.]

[She's an Indian. Native American, I mean. A lot of them live on land reserved for them, hence the name. IO's _got_ to be watching her house; she's going to get picked up for sure.] He closed com.

"Is that _cookies_ I smell?" Eddie's nose lifted.

"Still warm from the oven; milk's in the fridge. Kitchen's on the left. When did you all eat last?"

"We stopped at a strip mall south of Phoenix and grabbed some clothes and stuff," Kat said. "Nothing since then."

"I _thought _I heard stomachs growling_. _I have a big dish of macaroni and cheese in the fridge, too; fifteen minutes to heat." _Kids love cookies and milk, and macaroni and cheese; all the magazines say so. _As she retrieved the dish and set the oven, she said, "Where did Sarah leave you?"

"Globe. Globe, Arizona." Kat and Bobby looked uneasily at her as Eddie and Roxanne stuffed chocolate-chip cookies into their mouths. "We change our route and drive two hundred miles out of our way to take her to see her family, and she insists on us dropping her off at the edge of the reservation. At the crack of dawn."

"Prudent," she told them. "You'd stand out. Her chances are much better without you, assuming she looks Indian. How is she getting back?" _I thought these two looked uncomfortable _before_._

"Where is she?" Mr. Lynch came through the door, looking at Kat. Bringing him up to speed took twenty seconds.

"She said she'd find a ride." Kat seemed embarrassed.

"Great," the master of the house growled. "She'll be bringing strangers to my gate. We'll have to move right away." He added, "Or maybe I can shoot him."

"Actually," the girl said, "I think she meant to hitchhike."

"Even _better_," he ground out. "Five hundred miles. Two, maybe three days by thumb. A hundred thousand witnesses will pass her by. IO will be following her to my _doorstep_, if they don't pick her up on the road."

"Nobody's going to pass her on the road," Bobby said.

"And why not?" He turned to the boy.

Bobby seemed as defensive as if he, and not Sarah, were the object of his father's irritation; his mouth took a stubborn set, and there was a challenging tone to his reply. "What guy's going to dust _her_, if he sees her alone by the road with her thumb out? She won't spend ten minutes on the shoulder between there and here. I wouldn't be surprised if she makes better time than we did."

"_I_ wouldn't be surprised if she sets out for here and never makes it. IO's not the only danger on the road for a seventeen-year-old girl." He turned back towards the garage. "I've got to go. Probably be gone a couple days, maybe three. I'll call."

Bobby's face clouded again. "The reservation's only eight hours away, about."

"And IO will be at her mother's door in twelve, asking unpleasant questions. It's her _family_ I'm worried about right now. Sorry, Anna; I didn't intend to leave you holding the fort like this."

She glanced at her four house guests. "Don't worry about us, sir. Everything will be fine."

The trouble began scarcely an hour after Mr. Lynch left. She was cleaning the counters when Roxanne came into the kitchen with an unlit cigarette between her lips; she flicked on a lighter and brought the flame to its tip.

"Roxanne. No smoking in the house, please."

The girl rolled her eyes and let her lighter go out. "What's the problem?" She stuffed the coffin nail back into a fancy case and put cigarettes and lighter into her jacket pocket.

She smiled at her. "No problem. But there's no smoking in the house. Did you get enough to eat?"

"Uggh, I'm stuffed. I don't usually drop my face in my plate like that. Must've felt a real need for comfort food."

"Good. Tell me what you like before I grocery shop tomorrow. Are you settled in with Kat yet?"

"Sure. Took about ten seconds, with nothing to unpack. We just picked beds."

"_And w_e'll get you a couple of changes of clothes tomorrow. Come here a second."

The girl approached cautiously. Anna reached out and brushed at the shoulders of the leather jacket.

"What are you doing?"

"Getting the ashes off." She flicked her eyes towards the girl's lowering face, and combed her fingers through the ends of her dark hair. She compared the girl's features to a hundred magazines and cosmetics ads. "There. You're beautiful again. The purple streaks are a perfect touch. They frame your face and provide a nice contrast. And your eyes are quite distinctive. Are those contacts, or are they really violet?"

Roxanne eyed her. "Going a little heavy on the mom act, aren't you?"

"Am I?" She smiled again. "If you think so, I can tone it down."

"Whatever." She turned to leave, then turned back. "You work here, right? This is just a job?"

She cocked her head. "I don't understand."

"You're not bumping the headboard with the Man in Black, are you? You're just here for the money."

"I can make money a lot of ways. I like the work, Roxanne. What are you asking me?"

"I'm saying, if you've got a problem with me, you don't have to come on all nice to me for a paycheck."

She took a step towards the girl. "Roxanne, believe me, there's not enough money in the _world_ to make me be nice to you." She tousled her hair. "Don't worry, baby. I'll take good care of you."

The violet eyes regarded her with a strange expression. _Inappropriate response? _"Lady, you are _strange_." But she smiled as she said it. _Not this time, apparently._ "I thought you were dumping on me, brushing off my jacket."

"Dumping on you."

"Yeah. Trying to make me feel like a slob for smoking."

"Not in my nature. You were the victim of a puff of wind, that's all. Have you been smoking outside?"

"Out the side door, away from the street."

"Good." She turned to the cupboard and brought out a disposable container. "This is your ashtray until I can get you something better. Do your smoking at least three steps from the door and don't leave any evidence but this, and you'll hear no complaints from me. Does anyone else smoke?"

"No. You really don't care?"

"I certainly do. You're what, fourteen? Fifteen? And you managed to lay hands on a pack while you were running for your life. You've got the habit bad. But if you ever shake it, you'll do it when _you_ decide; I'll just settle for keeping it out of the house." She rinsed her rag in the sink and hung it over the faucet. "So, what did you come in here for, originally?"

"Nothing, really. I guess I came in to see what you were doing."

_Wandering through a strange house, wondering what the future holds; sounds familiar._

"Since you're here, how about helping me make some plans? You guys are going to need a _ton_ of stuff. Including swimsuits," she said, glancing out the window at the pool and the beach beyond. "Do you like one or two piece suits? I don't recommend skinny dipping. The pool and the beach are secluded from the street, and the neighbors can't see the pool, but both are quite visible from boats, and people do stroll the beach." _The planting I've done should take care of that in a few months, and nobody approaches this house from any direction without the security system catching it._

She giggled. "Two piece, definitely. You know those string bikinis that tie? They're my favorite."

Anna looked her up and down. "Well, you've got the perfect figure for them." She didn't know what sort of figure suited such apparel, but the remark seemed appropriate.

"So do you. I bet we're the same size. Um, do you have any Kotexes? I'm about due."

"No, I don't have any, either. Let's make it the first thing on our list."

They sat at the kitchen table and spent an hour discussing clothes and food; Anna came away with a menu plan for the next week, and a decision to take the girls individually on short shopping trips. Shopping for clothes in a group, she determined, would likely turn into a social event; she needed to get them clothed and back under cover as quickly as possible. She would buy for the boys herself; in Roxanne's opinion, they'd wear anything that fit.

"Did they pick out what they're wearing?"_ Get more of the same. Find their sizes._

"Yeah." She made a face. "It takes me longer to brush my _teeth_."

She added toothbrushes, combs, and toiletries to her mental list. "I'd like to have some things for Sarah before she gets here. Any idea what her sizes are?"

"Um, no idea what her dress size is; ten, maybe? I've never seen her wear one. She's a shorts-and-slacks kind of girl. Likes her tops tight and low-cut, the showoff. Five-seven, maybe one-twenty, one-thirty. I'm just guessing." She paused. "You might want to be careful buying clothes for her, there's no telling how she'll take it. Especially if you bought her something she _liked_; she dresses to give a certain impression, you might say."

_This from a girl wearing purple hair and a leather mini. _"She seems independent-minded."

"Well, that too, but … did anybody tell you why she needs her own room?" When she shook her head, the girl went on. "She's gay. Into girls, I mean."

"Oh. Does that create a problem?"

Roxanne looked at her speculatively. "Anna … which way does _your_ gate swing?"

"Beg pardon?"

"Are you gay? Any chance you two might pair off?"

_Is this the sort of question Mr. Lynch was hoping to avoid with this little dress? The kids have been here two hours, and the disguise is slipping already._ "No. Even if I were, it would be unprofessional."

"Uh huh. That doesn't sound like a whole answer, Anna. You like guys?"

She thought about Mr. Lynch and the two boys now under her roof. "Yes, very much."

"Got a boyfriend?"

"Haven't had much time for one, or opportunity. What about you? How serious is it with you and Eddie?"

The girl grinned. "Not much past flirting right now, but he's _hot_. I've got plans for him." The smile thinned slightly. "If I can unglue his eyes from my sister's rack."

"Rack?"

"You know." She cupped her hands in front of her, as if she were holding invisible grapefruits to her chest.

"Oh. You and Kat are sisters?" _There's no resemblance, either in body type or facial structure._

"Half sisters, we think. We only met at the Academy." She looked thoughtful. "Didn't take long to notice that most of us were adopted or foster kids. I was the only one living single-parent with her natural mother. None of us knew our natural fathers, seemed like. There were a few kids who _claimed_ they lived with their real parents, but how could they know? I wonder if they ever looked at their birth certificates. There were copies in the paperwork we had to bring to school with us. When Kat showed up, they put her in my study group, and we compared. The same guy was listed as the father on both of them, kind of an embarrassing moment. Strange world, huh?"

"I doubt it was a coincidence; I'm sure IO knew, given their keen interest in your fathers."

Roxanne stood up. "Well, if my mom told me the truth about it, my father probably forgot her name, and he never knew I existed. At least Kat's mom got a wedding ring, and Kat got his name. _And_ he made sure they were safe with his brother, before he dropped off the face of the earth."

_And he's probably dead. Your father sounds like one of the Twelves who hid their children as best they could and used themselves as decoys, once they realized what was going on._ "I'd give him a chance to tell his story before I judge him, Roxanne."

"Tell that to Bobby. He needs it a _lot_ more than I do."

"What is it I need?" Bobby popped his head into the doorway.

"Explanations," Anna replied, smiling. "And maybe some TLC. How was your snack?"

"'Snack.' I usually get my mac and cheese from a box, not out of the oven with bread crumbs and toasted cheese on top. And a little sprig of parsley." He smiled back. "But I could get used to it. You doing anything right now? Cuz I think Kat's having a meeting. And your name's coming up a lot."

Her hearing had picked up a conversation developing in the living room, and identified the voices of the other three kids, but she'd filtered it out to keep her focus on Roxanne; now, as she walked the short hall to the living room, she readjusted her filters and picked out Kat's voice clearly.

"-and I for one am ready to hear some answers. If we're kept in the dark and we're not allowed to leave, this place is just a fancier prison. I was going to talk to Mr. Lynch, but he's gone, maybe for days, and I don't want to wait if I don't have to. I'm betting Anna knows a lot more than we do."

"I don't feel like a prisoner," Eddie said. "It's more like being in the Witness Protection Program." A patting sound. "And I like the grub. It isn't perfect here, but it's a lot better than where we were."

She stepped into the room. Eddie lounged on the couch and Kat was standing in front of him; she turned as Anna spoke to them. "And on that note, are you guys going to be okay till breakfast, or should I fix something else? After I've answered all the questions I can, that is." Roxanne and Bobby followed her in; the girl sat down beside Eddie, and Bobby took a nearby chair, while Kat kept on her feet, facing her.

"I'm full now, but it won't last," Kat said. "But if there's stuff in the fridge or whatever, we can do for ourselves. We don't need you to wait on us hand and foot."

"Speak for yourself, Red," Eddie said with a hand on his stomach. "We don't want her boss thinking she's not doing her job."

"Which is any meal bigger than a sandwich or a bowl of cereal, Kat. I can see I'm going to have to stock the pantry better from now on. Where do you want to start? I'll tell you anything I can." _Meaning, anything it's okay for you to know._

"Well, for starters, exactly who are we running from? Who did this to us, and why?"

"The government," said Bobby. "Had to be. But this guy who says he's my father, where does he fit in?"

"And what's he got in mind for us?" Eddie rose off the couch. "What's happening at home, and how soon can we go back? And what's with all the weird stuff we're doing now?"

She held up a hand. "Wait. I didn't think I was going to be able to tell you much that you didn't know, but I see now you're still mostly in the dark. So let's start at the beginning. As you've probably guessed by now, you were used as guinea pigs in an exotic experiment. The culprit is … a government intelligence agency that's gone cancerous, growing without limit and poisoning its host. It's known as International Operations, or just IO. It's very big, very rich, and very secret; even the government entities that are supposed to be overseeing it know only a fraction of what it's up to. It has its own armed forces; small but well-equipped and superbly trained, elite troops who specialize in counterterrorism work done very quietly. Its intelligence-gathering capabilities are an order of magnitude better than anyone else's, and its research programs are doing breakthrough experiments in almost any field you can name. The strange abilities you've developed are an inheritance from your fathers, who were all members of IO's military arm. Before you were conceived, IO used them as unwitting test subjects, and they came out of the program with some odd abilities of their own, and alterations to their genetic code."

"Anna, you just lost me," Bobby said.

"I get it," Eddie said. "Super soldier serum, like Captain America."

Bobby looked amused. "Careful, man. Your education's showing."

"Hey, the guy's been around since the Forties. It's like reading the classics."

"Whatever it is you're talking about, Eddie, it sounds like you're on track. Twenty years ago, your dads were given a series of treatments and drug regimens that they were told was a 'special inoculation series' for an extended assignment overseas. When the 'mission' was scrubbed, none of them thought anything of it … until a few weeks later, when their subjective reality started shifting on them. They found themselves gifted with unsettling new talents, talents that IO thought would make them better covert-action troopers."

Eddie grinned. "Like the L-man's scowl? _That_ could be classified as a weapon." When Bobby glared at him, he said, "Yeah, like that."

She looked at him coolly. "Like being able to see around corners, or dodge bullets, or _think_ a man dead without touching him." Eddie's lighthearted attitude dissipated.

"Has he ever done that?" Kat seemed subdued, yet oddly fascinated.

"_I've_ never seen him do it. But I'm sure he could. I wouldn't urge him to demonstrate, if I were you." She looked at each of them in turn; Roxanne was suddenly looking a bit pasty. "I'm sure IO will steal you back, if they can. Mr. Lynch intends that not to happen. He sabotaged IO's computers so that they no longer have records of you or how they found you. That was just to provide a respite for you and all the others to run. Some of that data may be lost forever, but they'll reconstruct a great deal of it quickly. You have to steer clear of any known contacts: family, friends, favorite places. You'd better be circumspect about picking up former hobbies, if they're anything unusual."

"We can't stay cooped up in this house forever." Bobby looked around the living room. "It's nice, but like Kat said, it's just another prison if we can't leave."

"Mr. Lynch is working on that. No doubt this emergency will set back his schedule, but I'm sure you'll be able to leave the house in a week or less. Eventually, he may be able to put you back in touch with your folks, but you'll have to be _very_ careful about that. IO knowing that your family is in contact with you is the _last_ thing you want."

Eddie looked thoughtful. "I bet they're still sending my folks fake e-mails and such."

"Yes, provided IO still has their address. No doubt everyone at the Academy who had contact with you is being questioned exhaustively, from your teachers down to the people who emptied your wastebaskets, trying to fill in details."

Eddie looked around at all the others. "How much did anybody tell Nicole?"

Kat and Roxanne looked grave. "If she remembers half of what I told her," Kat said, "I can never go home again. IO's staking out my uncle's house and my computer club and my favorite coffee shop already."

Eddie nodded. "Same. She could get your life story out of you in ten minutes."

"Kids, who's Nicole?"

"She was our guidance counselor at the Academy," Eddie answered. "About Kat's age, maybe a little older. Had a real personal touch. People were popping into her office all _day_ to chat."

"Guys especially," Roxanne said. "Shameless flirt, just like Sarah. Her coverall zipper never got within six inches of her neck."

"_I_ liked her," Kat said. "So did you, Sis, don't deny it. She was easy to like." She shook her head. "She was a plant. Matt too."

_Bobby's gone quiet, suddenly. _Anna shrugged."It doesn't change the plan. Everybody stays close to the house until Mr. Lynch gets back. I'll take the girls out one at a time for a few things, and bring back some clothes for the boys. Make a list of favorites from the grocery store, and I'll see what I can do." She smiled at them. "By tomorrow afternoon, you'll all be in the pool, and I'll have put three meals in you. Maybe things won't seem so grim by then."

She turned to Bobby. "I didn't forget your question, Bobby. Your father is … was … the head of one of IO's three main divisions, the Operations Directorate. That's the military arm. He's been looking for you since you disappeared. When he found you at the Academy, he made the decision to desert IO and take you with him. After the kids at the Academy started manifesting and he found out about what IO was doing to them, he expanded his plan to include scuttling the whole Genesis Project, and taking as many other kids with him as he could. That turned out to be your whole study and training group. For reasons of their own, IO housed you together as prisoners, just as they did when you were students."

"My mom's dead, right?"

"Yes, dear. I'm sorry. When you were very small, and both of you away from home. That's how your father lost you. I don't think I should say any more about that; your father should tell you." She looked at the others: Kat, Roxanne, Eddie. "I don't know where your fathers are. They're either dead or so deep underground that they can't be found. Eddie, your mother disappeared at the same time as your father, so there's hope they're together. Kat, do you know about your mother?"

"Divorced Dad when I was three," she said. "Didn't stop him from moving us in with his brother just before he disappeared. Mom died in a car crash a year later. I don't remember her. Uncle Nathan and Aunt Joyce raised me as their own, but they made sure I knew where I came from."

Anna nodded. "I know Mr. Lynch would like to locate your parents, but he doesn't have much hope. Contacting anyone you knew before the Academy would put them in grave danger. So for now at least, all we have is each other." She looked from one to the other. "Anything else?" after a moment, she said, "Something's bound to come to mind later. I'll tell you anything I can. Now, there are a few house rules."

Eddie and Roxanne groaned.

"Not many, at least not yet, but I'll expect you to abide by them. Most of them deal with security, with keeping us under the radar and uncaught. First and foremost: this house has a better security system than the Louvre. But you have to be on the property for it to protect you. So until Mr. Lynch gets back to forge you some proper ID, you stay on the property unless escorted by me, and I warn you, outings will be few and far between. By midnight, everyone has to be inside, and the house perimeter gets locked down. That won't change when Mr. Lynch comes back and you're free to travel away from the house during the day."

"We have to be in bed by _midnight_?" Roxanne was aghast.

"Hardly." She shook her head. "Mr. Lynch didn't give me any lights-out policy. Keep whatever hours you like." She smiled. "I'm a night owl myself. But Mr. Lynch and I are the only ones who enter or leave the house between midnight and six AM. If it matters, feel free to ask why. Better still, guess."

"None of us is ever out of contact for more than eighteen hours," Caitlin said.

"Yes. But you should always let someone know when you leave the house, with an approximate time to expect you back. Elementary security precaution. If it's not asking too much, knowing where you intend to go might be helpful in locating your body before the hyenas get it." She looked at their faces. "Not funny? Forget I said it. But, if they nab you, IO can take you _far_ from aid in eighteen hours. Keep as close tabs on each other as privacy allows. Watch each other's backs. Any other guesses?"

Roxanne made a face. "He's trying to keep us out of trouble."

"Exactly. You're teenagers. Your chances of being picked up by the police or finding some other trouble are phenomenally higher during the wee hours. Mr. Lynch is simply eliminating the possibility. Also, if IO wants to pick one of you up without alarming the rest of us, what better time than when you're out late at night, a time you might be expected not to check in for hours?"

"Dance clubs are open after midnight."

"So are bars, pool halls, massage parlors, airports, hospitals, and police stations. Your point?"

"Nothing. Never mind."

"All right then. So, when we're most vulnerable to individual attack, we make sure we're together and well-protected. At this time, the only other rule concerns smoking in the house: there isn't any. It's a fire risk, a health hazard for the non-smokers, and an unnecessary cleaning job for me. Roxanne can show you the designated smoking area."

"Hey," Eddie said, "I still want to know what this dude is planning to do with us, and how long before we can go home."

"He hasn't told me, Eddie, only that you may be staying here for an extended period. I suppose it depends on how soon you want to be guests of IO again." She looked at the apprehension on their faces. "There's no telling how long it will take for them to lose interest in you, if ever; IO has a lot invested in you, after all. Perhaps Mr. Lynch can think of a way to get them to leave you alone. Until then, you'd better stay here."

"Okay. But how come we can't pick our own clothes, like the girls?"

She blinked. "I thought you didn't care what you wore."

"Are you kidding?" He looked down at his rumpled garments. "I'm _real_ fussy about my clothes. So's Bobby."

"I was under the impression that you two would go into a store and buy the first thing that fit."

Eddie gave Roxanne a sour look. "Looks that way to a girl, maybe. That's because they'll put everything they pick out right back in the rack if they think one of their girlfriends has something that looks like it. Guys don't worry about that. If it looks good, and you see some other guy looking good in the same outfit, it just proves you've got good taste."

"I see." She smiled. "Clearly I've got a thing or two to learn about men. Outings for each of you, then. We start at nine." She turned. "If anybody needs something, I'll be in the kitchen."

In the kitchen, she opened the pantry and refrigerator, examining the contents and her memory, looking for a recipe she could use that her guests might like, making enough noise to reassure them of her location. As she did, she listened carefully to the conversation in the next room.

Kat started, keeping her voice low. "Okay, team. We need a roundtable discussion. We've got some big decisions to make."

"Sarah's not here."

"She's not here by _choice_, Bobby. She made her decision without consulting us, and frankly, she may not be back. If she was sitting here, it wouldn't make any difference, because she'd do what she wants anyway. Okay. Can we trust these people, and should we accept their protection? If not, do we stay together … or split up? Bobby, you start. You have the biggest stake in this."

"How so?"

"Well, he's your _dad_."

"Says him. He never coached _my_ Little League team. We don't know who he is, or what he wants from us. All we know about him is that he's ruthless and dangerous and seems to be rich." The echoes from his voice changed subtly; she decided he must be looking around as he spoke. "We might wonder how a guy who doesn't notice he's got somebody else's blood all over his shirt makes his money. And if he _is _my father, he sure picked a great time to jump back into my life, don't you think?"

"What about _her_?"

"Strange. But nice. She has a lot of faith in her boss. That's a plus for him, in my book."

"All right. So, what do you want to do?"

"Stick around for now, I guess. But I think we should bail as soon as it looks like he's not being straight with us. I just hope he doesn't want to play Dad-and-Lad. I don't think I could stand it."

"Eddie? What say you?"

"The L-man makes sense so far. As long as the people who trapped us are still looking for us, we're plague carriers. I won't carry this trouble back to my family if I can avoid it. I just wish I could tell them I'm okay."

"So, you trust him?"

"To a certain point. There's an awful lot they're not telling us. But as long as they treat me right, I can overlook it. I wonder what's for dinner?"

"So, you accept Anna because she can cook?" The amusement in Kat's voice was obvious. _He's deliberately acting the clown, breaking the tension._

"And because she's a babe. A fine catch for an older guy," he added quickly. "Somebody who's not already crazy about another girl. Seriously. Does anybody think we've got a better chance on our own? I say we stick, and see what kind of deal we're being offered."

"Sis?"

"He's scary. And I'm not sure she's all there. I trust both of them, their intentions anyway. But I'm not sure staying here is a smart idea. Who ever heard of hiding in a place like this? There are probably _tour buses_ going down the street."

"Gate across the road, Rox. Remember?"

"Yeah. Maybe I'm just scared. I wish he hadn't left."

"What do you want to do, Sis?"

"I don't know." Anna caught a tremor in the girl's voice. "I just don't want to get caught again."

Anna decided it was time to stick her oar in the water. She emerged from the kitchen. "Grub in twenty minutes, kids."

"What are we having?"

She smiled. "Let me surprise you, Eddie." But instead of turning back, she entered their circle.

She'd made a study of body language, and assumed a posture that she thought indicated reasonable supplication: feet together, erect stance, hands clasped in front of her. She watched the kids carefully, as the unease at her approach faded. "I think, if I were you right now, I'd be wondering if there's anybody I can trust. Mr. Lynch is a very private man, and given to secrets. He's also very resourceful, and courageous, and he does and means what he says. He's offered you his protection, and that's not something to be regarded lightly. Whatever else you may think of him, you can count on him to do what he thinks is the best thing for you. Even if it's not the best thing for him." She turned and headed down the hall.

As she descended the steps to the basement, she heard Eddie say, "He's doing her."

"She says not, and I believe her."

"You _asked_ her that?"

"Uh huh. Also, if she might end up bunking with Sarah."

"Well?"

"She says she likes guys, but she's not looking for one. There's _something_ going on with her and Mr. Lynch. They must go way back, for him to trust her so much."

"She's not _old_ enough for them to go way back," Bobby said. "Do you think she heard us?"

"Maybe," Eddie replied. "The kitchen's not that far away, but we had our voices down. Do you suppose there's a mike in here or something?"

"No," Kat said. "But what _else_ would we be talking about?"

"You haven't weighed in, Kat," Bobby said. "What do _you _think?"

A pause of five heartbeats. "I want to trust them. Let's wait and see."

III

The dinner dishes were done, and the sink was draining. Anna wiped the counters, listening to the patter of rain outside the window. _I've spent more time cooking and cleaning the kitchen in the past six hours than the previous six days. And I have to move at their speed if there's a chance one of them will walk in. These kids are going to force significant changes in my daily schedule._

Her air filters detected combustion byproducts. She felt a few milliseconds of alarm before her discrimination software identified it as cigarette smoke. _So soon? The sooner the better, I suppose._ She went looking for the source and found Roxanne smoking in the garage.

"Roxanne, put that out now and get it out of the house."

The girl frowned at her. "It's the _garage_." She made no move to put out the cigarette.

"It's not three steps from the side door. It's inside the walls and mixing with the house air. Get it out of here."

"It's _raining_."

"Not an extenuating circumstance. Find a way to keep dry outside, smoke in the rain, or wait for it to pass."

Roxanne brought the offending object to her lips. "Jeez, don't wig out. It's not like it's _weed_ or anything."

The cigarette disappeared from her fingers; eyes wide, she stared at Anna holding the stubbed-out butt in a three-fingered grip.

Without anger, Anna said, "I've compromised on this all I'm going to, Roxanne. We had a deal. Are you prepared to set it aside entirely?" She took a step towards the girl. "Because I will _not_ tolerate smoking in this house, and if I can't trust you to honor that, the circumstances of your residence here are going to change dramatically." The girl's attention was riveted on her, eyes wide and glaring.

"Roxanne, if I have my way, you're not going to lift a finger around this house. You'll never wash a dish or sweep a floor. I'll clean your clothes and feed you and clean up after you; you'll live like a princess." She lifted the cigarette between them. "This is a deal breaker. If you flout my rules, I'm no longer obliged to cater to you. You'll wash your own clothes or wear them dirty. You won't starve, but your meal requests won't be honored, and you won't find any favorite snacks around here either. And you're going to lose a great deal of your privacy, because I'll declare open season on _any_ cigarettes in the house. I'll be on a twenty-four-seven seek-and-destroy mission, and you're going to be _amazed_ at how difficult it is to hide things from me."

Roxanne's lips were white. "You wouldn't."

"In a heartbeat."

"Does Mr. Lynch know you're making your own rules up?" The girl's eyes narrowed. "What would he do if he found out you're threatening to go on strike?"

Anna stepped to the wall where a phone was mounted. She punched in a number, set the phone to speaker, and stepped back. The sound of the phone ringing filled the garage.

"What are you _doing_?"

"You asked two important questions. Let's get the answers." She folded her arms.

The phone picked up. "_Anna?_" Lynch's voice answered.

"Yes, sir." Her voice was neutral, impassive.

"_I'm expecting calls back from tribal elders in a few minutes. Can this wait?_"

"It's urgent sir, but it shouldn't take long. Roxanne needs to speak with you." Anna pinned the girl with her glance.

"_Roxanne? What is it, what's wrong?_" His gruff voice was suddenly warm with concern.

Roxanne glanced from Anna to the phone. "Uh." When she realized Anna wasn't going to interrupt, she began, "Your housekeeper's wigging out. I came in out of the rain to have a smoke in the garage, and she went ballistic. Snatched it out of my mouth and threatened to quit doing my laundry, and then she said she was going to go through my room every day, looking for cigarettes." Her eyes were challenging.

"_Anna? Is that true?_"

"Essentially correct, sir. I won't quibble over details. I've forbidden smoking inside the house."

A moment's silence, then: "_I can't believe I'm taking a call about this._" Roxanne looked at Anna, expectant; Anna returned the look. Finally, the master of the house spoke.

"_Roxanne, if Anna forbids clothing inside the house, I'll expect you to comply, because she never does anything without a reason and I trust her judgment completely. She's my employee, not yours, and her instructions are very simple. When I'm not around, she enforces my rules, and whether I'm there or not, the household is hers to run as she sees fit. I reserve the right to countermand her policies, but I won't do it for something as trivial as your cigarette habit. Anna, do you have anything to add?_"

Anna leaned a shoulder against the wall. "No, sir, I think that takes care of it. Thank you."

"_Don't hesitate to call if any more trouble comes up. And I'll be calling you later, for a full report._"

"Yes, sir." She broke the connection and held out the cigarette, offering it stubbed end up. "The deal is still on the table, Roxanne. You're a big girl. Make a decision."

She didn't reach for it. "Guess I should have seen this coming. You _used_ to sleep with him, right?"

"Sweetheart, I've never slept with him. He's doing this because it's the right thing to do."

Scowling, the girl reached for the offered butt, but her fingers stopped inches from touching it. She stared at the cigarette, then at Anna's hands. Finally, she reached cautiously for the butt, and gasped as the housekeeper's hand spun and clamped her wrist. "One more thing, Roxanne. Your fake ID. Let's see it."

"Fake ID?"

"Roxanne," she said with narrowed eyes, "I presume you haven't been _stealing_ your smokes."

"No." She pulled it slowly out of a jacket pocket and passed it to her.

Still holding the girl's wrist, Anna examined the card critically. "Well, you certainly are an artist with makeup. You could easily pass for twenty-one in this photo. How long did it take you to put on?"

"Forty minutes, maybe." She tugged experimentally, testing the housekeeper's grip. "Let _go_."

"Nice work. Trouble is, you don't _look_ like this when you buy your smokes, do you? You look like a girl who stole her sister's ID. And the picture is the best part; the rest is amateurish work with a copy machine and whiteout. Only someone who _wanted_ to be fooled would let it pass." She let go of Roxanne's wrist and tore the card in half. Roxanne gasped again. She put the two pieces together and tore them a second time, dividing the card into quarters. She stuck the pieces in her pocket. "When Mr. Lynch gets back, he's going to arrange for fake IDs, _good _ones. I'll make sure you get one that lists you as barely legal. _You _make sure you get your picture for it taken in the oldest face you can apply in five minutes, and then _do_ it every time you buy smokes."

The girl rubbed her wrist. "I thought … we were going to be friends."

"Even if you never speak to me again, Roxanne, I'll still be your friend. But I won't risk your life to keep you liking me."

"What are you _talking _about?"

"San Diego PD." She began counting on her fingers. "San Diego Sheriff's Department. State inspectors. ATF. They all send undercover agents into stores suspected of selling to minors. If you had presented that ID to a cashier in front of any of them, you'd have been arrested. For any other kid, that's a couple hours in custody until their parents come for them. But you're not any kid; you're being hunted by IO, an agency of the Department of Homeland Security. By now, they've got a photo of you from somewhere, and copies of it have been faxed to cop shops all over the country. They won't post them, but IO has contacts in all the country's police agencies. Each of those faxes will end up in somebody's desk drawer, along with orders to keep an eye out for you." She leaned towards the girl until their faces were a foot apart. "If you're ever in a store buying cigarettes and a hand comes down on your shoulder, it means you're just hours away from being back in your cell."

She watched Roxanne tremble; a tear rolled down her cheek. "Don't," she said. "You can't know …"

"Maybe not," Anna replied. "But I know this: as horrible as it was, _they were just getting started_. IO has _plans_ for you." She wiped at the girl's cheek. "Let's try to avoid all that, shall we? And try not to dwell on it. Tomorrow morning I'll take you shopping, and by lunchtime you'll be dozing in the sun by the pool, working on your tan."

The girl stumbled towards the connecting door.

"Ah." Anna stopped her, pointing to the cigarette butt still clutched in the girl's fingers. The garage door lifted, opening on the gloom and drizzle. Roxanne passed through the big door without a word, and Anna sent it down behind her.

"Wow," Anna said to herself. From the time she'd entered the garage until she'd sent Roxanne shuffling out into the gloom, she'd encountered thirty-four high-order decision points; a bad choice or an inappropriate response at any of them might have produced a negative effect ranging from inconvenient to disastrous. At this point, she could only hope she'd navigated safely through the perils of instructing the obstinate girl. _Raising kids is tough._

Anna was vacuuming the house an hour later. As she ran the sweeper under the dining room table, she kept an ear cocked for conversations. Her discrimination software filtered out the whine of the machine, leaving her able to focus on the sound of voices in the kids' bedrooms.

From the boys' room, she heard Bobby say, "Bro, _tell_ me you're not really thinking of doing that."

"Why not? Girls her age go for young guys. Look at all the twenty-something schoolteachers get popped screwing around with ones our age."

"_You'll_ get popped, like a soap bubble, when Rox catches you, and don't say she won't. You came _that_ close to getting caught our last night at the Academy. Natalie must have been telling her girlfriends before she had her coverall zipped. Only thing saved you was that her pod was clear across the complex, and the story didn't make it to commons in time. If we'd stayed in school another day, you'd be a dead man. Anna's bedroom is _right next door_."

"I bet _she_ could keep her mouth shut. Think on it, dude. She must get lonesome, cooped up in the house alone all the time. If they're keeping secrets, maybe she'll spill them to me."

"Oh, so you're doing it for the _team_ now."

"Let's say I'm _also_ doing it for the team. If Sarah wasn't dragging you around with her delicate pinky up your nostril, I'd suggest _you_ do it. I bet you're more her type."

"Oh?"

"Yeah. One: you're closer to her age. Two: you're dapper, and she's a neat freak. Three: you're both too Caucasian for words. For all we know, she's a member of the Aryan Sisterhood."

Bobby snorted. "You make me laugh. It's the only reason I don't have you committed. When are you going to make your big play?"

"She says she's a night owl. I'll see what I can do after the girls are in bed. Be ready to take over if I strike out."

"I'll be there to call the squad after she parts your hair with an iron."

From the girls' room, Kat said, "Are you going to take any of those to the sink?"

"Nope. And when I get more than one outfit to wear, you'd better watch where you step, cause my dirties are headed for the floor. Don't pick up after me."

"I don't get it. Why make extra work for her?"

"We have a deal. Kat, you remember what I said before? About her not being all there?"

"Sis, she caught you smoking in the house and came down on you with both feet. That doesn't make her crazy."

"No. But she got a little upset, maybe, and showed me more than she intended to."

"Like?"

"She's _fast_, Kat. As fast as you, maybe. She was three steps away when she moved to take that cig out of my mouth. I wasn't asleep on my feet; I was watching to see what she'd do. But she caught me flat-footed, I never saw it coming. She did the same thing when she grabbed my wrist. Which brings up the second thing. I was caught like a fox in a bear trap. She's _strong_."

"She didn't mark you." Kat sounded dubious.

"She wasn't gripping me tight. But I wasn't getting away. Her hand was like a manacle on my wrist. Kat, you ever try to tear a driver's license? Or a credit card, anything like that? Without your magic, I mean."

"You can't, they're too – oh."

"Yeah. Mine was double laminated, just like a real one. She tore it like notepaper. Then she doubled it and did it _again_, also like it was nothing."

"What are you thinking? She's like us?"

"Sort of." The girl's voice grew softer. "I think she's a lab rat like us, only from a different lab. But I think she spent too much time in her cell before Bobby's dad got her out. You remember him saying he had to move before he was ready? I think they put us in those cells sooner than he expected, and he had to get us out quick … before we ended up like _her_."

"You make her sound autistic or something."

"No. But there are a lot of pieces missing from her puzzle. What girl her age doesn't know what a _rack_ is? Or what it means to _dump_ on somebody? Or the way she … looks at something commonplace like she's seeing it for the first time. Mark my words, some morning we'll come in the kitchen, and she'll be stirring oatmeal with her bra on outside her shirt. But you know what really raised the hairs on the back of my neck? She grabbed the cigarette out of my mouth and stubbed it out, quick as taking a breath. It only occurred to me later, when she gave it back … Kat, she ground it out in her _other hand_."

III

Anna was sitting on the couch at one AM, watching an old movie on the DVD player, when she heard quiet steps behind the couch that her discrimination software identified as Eddie's. She pretended not to hear, watching her show raptly, oblivious, as he approached. He stood over her from behind for three minutes. Finally, he said, "Hi."

She jumped and turned her head. "You have the _deepest _voice for a fifteen-year-old. How long have you been standing there?"

"Not long. I was savoring the moment. It's the first time I've seen you when you weren't moving." He smiled down at her. "What happened to the penguin outfit?"

She was wearing her shorts and sweatshirt. Sitting on the couch cross-legged, her legs were exposed to mid-thigh. When she turned her head towards him, the neck opening slipped down her shoulder, bare with no sign of a bra strap. "I'm off the clock. I can wear what I like."

"Uh huh. Looks like your boyfriend's clothes."

"Ex. Seems he was easier to dispense with than his sweats."

"I bet they look better on you. Lots." He circled the couch and sat down next to her, a hand's width away; his thigh touched her knee. "What is this we're watching?"

"Movie, sixty years old, black and white. _Casablanca_. Ever hear of it?"

"_Everybody's_ heard of it. I never got into it, though." He placed his arm on the back of the couch behind her.

"I've watched it four times, but there are parts I just can't understand. It's a love story, I think."

"Well, see, _that's_ why you don't understand it. Love never makes sense." He leaned close. "Sometimes you find yourself attracted to the most unlikely person."

"I've never had that problem. All my boyfriends look alike. Eddie, if you're going to watch this with me, would you like me to start it over?"

"No need," he said, smiling. "I'm here for the company. What do I have to do to get you to call me Grunge?"

"That's your girlfriend's name for you, Eddie." She kept her eyes on the screen.

"She's not exactly my girlfriend." His arm slid down, the hand resting lightly on her bare shoulder.

"She's not exactly _not_. Eddie, I'm enjoying your company, and I hope you don't decide to leave. But if you don't take your hand off me right now, you're going to have trouble using it tomorrow."

He lifted it unhurriedly. "You're not mad at me, are you?"

"Not at all. Flattered. Really. But I'm not in the market for a boyfriend, and if I were, I'd never pick a client. Unprofessional."

"'Unprofessional.' Sounds like an excuse to me."

"It's not; it's a commitment. Domestic service is a profession. When you invite a stranger to move in with you and run your house, you have to be able to rely on certain standards, codes of conduct, a clear set of responsibilities and obligations. That's why domestics wear uniforms."

"Well, you're not in that starched little dress _now_. Something wrong with me? Got a problem with yellow boys, maybe?"

She gave him a brief smile. "You're gorgeous and you know it; in fact, that's the first problem. You're fifteen, that's another. And even if I'm out of uniform, you're still a client. Besides, you're not my type, about six different ways, and nothing to do with your eye slant. Are you going to watch this with me, or did you just come in here trying to get lucky?"

Bobby appeared at the back of the couch. "Hey. _Casablanca._"

"Good grief, is _anybody_ asleep in this house?"

"Girls are dead to the world. You like Bogie flicks, Anna?"

"Is this a Bogie flick?"

"Well, sure. Humphrey Bogart stars." He dropped down on her other side, as close as Eddie. _Cozy._

"Well, I like _this_ one. But I don't understand this part. Rick is talking to Ilsa. He's been drinking, and he seems angry; that much I understand. But what is he talking about … 'a tinny piano playing in the parlor downstairs'? And why is she so upset?"

Eddie stood up. "A glass of milk sounds good right now."

After he left, Bobby said evenly, "He just called her a lying whore."

"Oh." She shook her head. "I'm lost. I thought he loved her."

"He does. He's crazy about her."

"Then … why did he hurt her?"

He shrugged. "It's complicated." He stared at the screen. "She's hurt him, and he doesn't understand why. He's looking for some explanation, but all he can come up with is that she's not who he thinks she is, that she's been playing him for kicks. He _needs_ her to be a bad person for it all to make sense, so he can feel better. But it's not working, because he loves her and he can't make himself believe. So he takes a stab at her, pushes her off balance, to see if she'll show him who she really is." He took a deep breath. "She doesn't mean to hurt him. But their choices are forced by one crazy circumstance after another, and it's all out of control, and they just keep hurting each other. The time is just never right for them to come together."

She looked at him. "Love never makes sense."

His eyes were as shiny as Ilsa's as he stared at the screen. "I wouldn't know. What's a kid my age know about it? We only _think_ we're in love."

She recalled the unusual stresses in the boy's voice when the missing girl Sarah was a subject of the conversation. _The girl is his lover. That's why he said no man could resist her. But he didn't want to share a room with her. And_ _Roxanne says she's gay. _

In a different tone, he went on, "You know, this is a strange flick. The dialogue's too clever to be real. The action scenes are wooden, because the camera's so big and heavy it takes a crew to move it. The special effects are Flintstone. Did you know that airplane's a prop, built in three-fourths scale? Those guys standing around it are midgets, I'm not kidding. And when it takes off, you can almost see the wire lifting it off the runway. This is really a stage play done in front of a camera, and it's a shameless World War Two propaganda picture.

"But I still like it. When Rick thought he'd lost her, he lost himself. When she came back into his life, he had to find himself again. Then he gave up everything, absolutely everything, even her, in return for her love." He swallowed. "And Victor. Right now, Ilsa's going to talk about all the times he risked his life to keep her near. Later, when he's alone with Rick in the bar, he'll almost beg Rick to steal his wife and leave him forever, just to keep her safe. That's the thing about this movie that makes up for everything else. No matter how screwed up everything gets, no matter how much hurt he's eating, in the end a guy can at least figure out the right thing to do." The tears finally broke free, two of them, one falling silently down each cheek.

The hurt in the boy's voice was overpowering, demanding a response. As he spoke, her menu of appropriate responses shrank until only three were left. _If there is a God, let Him help me choose rightly._ It was her very first prayer.

Unfolding her legs, she dropped her feet to the floor and brought her head down to the height of his chin. She reached behind his neck and drew them together. With one hand gently holding the side of his head, she rested her cheek on his shoulder. "Things will work out, Bobby," she said softly. "Somehow, I don't know how yet, but they will." She added deliberately, "I promise."

He tipped his head towards her. "I don't believe a word of it. But I like hearing somebody say it. Thanks."

They lingered together for a moment. Just as they were about to separate, Eddie spoke from a short distance behind them. "Ahem. Got my milk and cookies right here, and I'm headed for my room. Gonna stay there and go right to sleep, and I'm not gonna wake up till morning. Late."

Bobby stood up. "Hope you've got enough for two. I'm coming too. Night, Anna. See you in the morning."

"Goodnight, guys," she said, turning back to the television. "Sweet dreams."

The bedroom door was barely closed behind them before she heard Eddie say, "What are you _doing_? You _had_ her."

"No, I didn't. And I think the idea sucks anyway. And even if it worked, I'd feel like an ass for using her."

"Told you. You're her type. 'Sweet dreams.' Maybe she wouldn't _mind_ being used."

"I hope you choke on those cookies. Seriously."

"Great. Now you're hopeless over _two_ women you'll never have."

She heard the soft thud of a body landing on a mattress. "Going to sleep now. Just so you know, if I haven't had a full night's rest, I wake up mean."

"Okay, I'm shutting up. But you had a good thing going, and you blew it."

"Things'll work out." Listening at full gain, she heard his heart and breathing begin to slow, while Eddie munched and drank. By the time he finished, Bobby was asleep.

She heard Eddie set the plate and glass on the floor by the bed, and then brush at the covers. "Too bad, dude," he said, too softly to wake his companion. "You really ought to be looking for another girl. Got a feeling this one would be good for you." The light under the bedroom door went out, and the house was hers; aside from some light snoring coming from the girls' room, there were no human sounds at normal hearing levels.

She thought about it as the movie progressed. _Bobby loves Sarah, but she can't love him, because she's gay. Or can she? But she doesn't, except … what was all that about love? I'm sure he wasn't just talking about the picture; there were too many stress indicators in his voice._ She watched Rick press his chest against Ilsa's pistol and urge her to shoot. _Another test. He's stressing her another way, trying to see who she really is. But this time, he's gambling with his life. If she chooses the wrong way, he's dead … and won't care._

_Can love really be this chaotic? This is "drama," an exaggerated hypothetical. But what do I use for a response check? If Eddie and Roxanne are in love,_ _the exaggeration is ludicrous. But Bobby's responses are much closer to the ones in the picture. I'll have to study his and Sarah's interactions if she comes to the house._

_It seems that love has different degrees of intensity._ Now Rick was preparing to deceive the girl he loved, while sacrificing everything he possessed, to ensure her safety and happiness. _And perhaps it comes in different flavors, as well._

An hour later, the phone rang. Since Mr. Lynch had told her to expect his call, she had kept the handset close at hand, to reach it before it woke the kids. "Good morning, sir."

"_Good morning. What was __that__ all about?_"

"Training, sir. Our joint survival depends on being able to function as a team, which implies respect for leadership and discipline. Willingness to obey orders is not a common teenage trait."

"_Humph. Go on._"

"I've been listening to the kids' conversations. They're uncertain and suspicious; their consensus is that you have ulterior motives for bringing them here. I'm a ditzy waif that you trust just enough to carry out your orders. They'll test you, starting with your rules and, since you'll be gone frequently, _my_ authority. I simply took the initiative by giving a quick opportunity to test me to the child most likely to bend the rules."

"_She seemed plenty mature and dependable at the Complex._"

"She was badly frightened and totally dependent on you for her safety and freedom. Disobeying you wouldn't occur to her under such circumstances; she's quite intelligent. Now she's far from that danger, and the memory of her ordeal is starting to fade. I gather she didn't have much supervision at home; she probably hasn't had a midnight curfew since middle school."

"_She had a ten o'clock curfew at the Complex._"

"And do you intend to lock her underground to force compliance? She observed that curfew because she didn't have any choice. If you give her a normal life, she'll have the same opportunities to break the rules that any child has; only the consequences will be different. These kids _have_ to understand that it's _vital_ for them to observe your rules and obey your orders, even when you're gone. And that _my_ rules and orders carry the same weight. I can't have them appealing to you at every decision."

"_I understand that; it's why I backed you. Would you really quit doing her laundry?_"

"We don't have many options for enforcing our decisions, sir. I can't ground her; she's already under house arrest, as it were. She seems rather big to spank. Throwing her out is an empty threat; it would be the same as giving her back to IO, and would lead them back to the rest of us besides. The only consequences I could devise were the withholding of something she values: I threatened her comfort and her privacy."

"_If she'd called you on it, you wouldn't have anything left to enforce the important rules._"

"It wouldn't matter. The smoking rule is simple, not too burdensome, and easy to enforce. I discussed it with her and offered a compromise. When she tried to push beyond the limits of our agreement, I had to step on her, or she'd be snapping her fingers at every rule she found inconvenient. She'd drag the other kids into trouble, likely, and they'd all be back in their cells before the year is out. I didn't dare give way."

"_Anna, you're changing again,_" Mr. Lynch said. "_You sound like a __mom__._"

"You asked me to take care of a houseful of _kids_, sir. Their families are out of reach or nonexistent. You stand _in loco parentis _to them, and by extension, so do I. Granted, they're precocious; each of them seems a couple of years ahead of the norm in terms of maturity. But they still need more from us than food, shelter, and clothing; they need guidance, nurturing, and support."

He was slow to reply. "_You think you're ready for that?_"

"I don't know. But it's a need more essential than clean laundry, and they have no one except us to provide it right now."

Shortly before dawn, she heard Roxanne's voice from the bedroom, too low and blurry for normal hearing. "Why are you doing this? What do you want from me? _Say _something, can't you? Wait. Don't go. Don't go…"


	2. Lab Ratz

March 2004

Project Genesis Secure Facility

a.k.a. The Darwin Academy

Roxanne lay on her mattress on the floor of the pitch-black cell, lost in a waking dream. She'd lost count of the meals she'd heard pushed through the floor-height slot in the wall by her bed. She had no idea of the dimensions of the room; she hadn't moved much past the trays and the toilet. There didn't seem to be any point in exploring.

Her nails were long gone, but the cigarette jones was finally loosening its grip. _Good thing. I was about to start on the fingers next._ She wondered if the crap they were probably feeding her was habit-forming.

She'd been having weird dreams and hallucinations in the sightless dark; sometimes she didn't know if she was awake or asleep. One time, she'd been sure she'd heard her mother's voice, shouting something from far away. She'd watched pale pastel lights crawling through the air above her head; when she closed her eyes, they were still there. Lots of times, she wasn't sure of the positions of her hands and feet. Once, she'd thought her left hand was behind her head and between her thighs at the same time. She'd been afraid to move it; she'd had to feel for it with her right to locate it, lying beside her on the mattress.

She placed her hands on her bare thighs. _Why did they take my clothes? Am I really naked, or am I just imagining it?_ She ran her hands up her thighs, her belly, her chest, and finally reached up to her neck to grip the metal-feeling collar that circled it. _This feels real enough._ She hung on to it, waiting for the familiar numbness to steal into her fingers, but after a hundred heartbeats it still felt solid as ever, making her even more uneasy. _Great. I'm so screwed up, I depend on numbness to keep a grip on reality._

A thought occurred to her. She felt her armpits, and then ran her hands down her legs. _Still smooth. It hasn't been more than a few days since I was kidnapped. Unless they're shaving me while I sleep. They'd _have_ to be drugging me, to get away with that._ She explored the downy patch between her thighs. She'd just started dressing that up a little, nothing radical, just whacking a couple of Indians wandering off the reservation whose boundaries were defined by her skimpiest underwear. _No nubs. Even if they're shaving me, would they notice this?_

She'd tried talking aloud, even singing, trying to relieve the silence of her prison. But they were messing with the room acoustics somehow. At first, her voice had disappeared into the dark without an echo; then suddenly it had begun to come back at her from every direction without any time lag. It was unnerving, like someone was reading her mind. Eventually she'd quit, and lay silent, afraid of her own voice.

She heard a scrape from the meal slot; another tray would be on the floor next to her bed. She'd quit trying to get whoever was pushing it through to talk to her. She crawled to the meal and ate the flavorless, semi-solid stuff unseen; she ate with her hands, since no utensils were provided. She rinsed them in the toilet afterwards and felt around the tray for her drink, suddenly parched. Liquid came in a heavy metal cup with a lid she couldn't open; she drank through a small hole in the top. The liquid was uncarbonated and tasted odd; it could have been Gatorade or rat poison, for all she knew, but it was either the contents of the cup or drink from the toilet.

She added the tray to the stack she was accumulating. After the first two or three feedings, she'd thought to keep track of the number of meals she'd had by keeping the divided trays in her cell instead of pushing them back through when she was done; she was sure they were feeding her at irregular times, but she could at least keep count of the meals. She'd already counted five meals in this way; this should be the sixth. She ran her fingers down the stack, counting trays by touch.

There were eight trays in the stack.

She fought down panic. _I didn't forget to count two meals. They know I'm doing this, and added two trays to mess me up. Next time I count, there'll be ten. Or two._ Nevertheless, she felt her heartbeat and breathing quicken._ I have_ _been saving them all, haven't I? God. If they keep this up for a month, I won't be sure of my own name._ She crawled back to her pallet and lay down on her back, folding her hands on her abdomen and crossing her ankles so she'd be sure where they all were.

"What a crappy week," she said softly, staring up into the darkness. Experimenting had shown her that the everywhere-at-once effect didn't kick on if she kept her voice down. For all she knew, it wasn't happening at all any more, but she was afraid to test it. Just now, she was afraid of almost everything.

Her mind wandered back to the start of the school week. Monday had been her fifteenth birthday, unnoticed by everyone but Kat; she hadn't even got an e-mail from her mom. It had also been when someone had played that weird practical joke on Bobby in the cafeteria, making his pop bottle explode in his hand and soaking her last clean coverall with steaming hot cola on wash day. Tuesday, Kat and Bobby had been missing from class: family emergency for Kat, and some mysterious court summons for Bobby. Matt, the dreamy PE instructor, had hinted that Bobby'd been called to give testimony against one of his former foster parents.

She'd groused about it as she'd done sit-ups on the gym mat while Matt counted. "What happened to the travel restrictions? And why didn't they say goodbye?"

"Security, Rox," he'd said with a faint smile. "You know how risky travel is for all of us right now. But the bad guys can't make plans to ambush us on the road if we're back before they know we're gone." His ice-blue eyes bored into her, coolly amused at her worries; she was suddenly very conscious of his hands on her ankles as she looked at him over her bare upraised knees. "I'm sure they're both safe. That's thirty."

That same afternoon, after lunch, she'd heard some vicious gossip: Grunge had been seen coming out of Pod Eleven's bedroom annex just before lights out the night before. They didn't hang out with anybody in Eleven; the only reason she could figure he'd be there was to spend a little "quality time" with the school skank, Jenny Grier. If the story was true – or even if it wasn't – it would be all over campus by tomorrow afternoon, despite the new security restrictions on the students' movements.

That afternoon, after classes, she'd gone to her weekly physical. She'd felt a little hesitant about stepping on Dr. Ivery's scale. Like many girls her age, she obsessed about her weight; sharing a table with Kat and watching her shovel it in made it easy to overdo, and she'd been afraid she'd gained in the past week.

Thinking she might need to drop a few pounds, she'd stepped on the scale and watched the digital readout do its thing. In bright red letters, it had displayed:

33.8

"Whups," the doctor had said. "Must have it set to metric."

_That's still only seventy-five pounds,_ she'd thought. _He must know that. I have to weigh more than that._ Immediately, the display's numbers had begun to rise until they'd displayed her normal weight, in pounds.

Dr. Ivery had looked at her. "Um, sorry, Rox. I don't know what's wrong with it. I'll have a new one by next week." He'd smiled warmly at her. "Lay off desserts till then."

She'd hung out with friends after dinner, watching a movie together as a good way to avoid talking. When Grunge had come into the room at the end of the movie, she'd made a determined effort to sweat him. It had been pathetic, really, the way he'd tried to make up to her and pretend he didn't know what she was mad about at the same time. She'd intended to keep the pressure on him for at least another day, until the story had made the rounds. If she was going to have to put up with all the sidelong glances and whispers tomorrow, she'd decided, he could endure her cold shoulder until the rumor mill moved on to something else. After he'd left, thoroughly chastised, she'd played cards with some kids in commons who'd carefully avoided the current hot subject – while she was with them, at least. But she knew they'd be talking about the two of them the instant she left.

An hour before lights out, she'd headed back towards Pod Nine's sleeping area. The Academy's underground floor plan was circular, with sleeping areas for each of the fourteen "pods" of students located around the perimeter. She'd nodded at the guard standing at the head of Pod Nine's hallway, and headed down the hall towards her room. On the way, she passed the pod's unused bedrooms; every sleeping annex had eight rooms, so there had been three of them. When they'd first been assigned quarters here, she'd wondered about that. Most of the other kids had been in groups of seven or eight; theirs was the only pod with fewer than six. _Maybe two or three never showed up._

The first occupied room was Kat's. On impulse, she'd tapped on the door. No answer. None of the doors had locks; following that same odd urge, she'd turned the knob and looked in. _Neat as a pin, just like always. _The family photos had been arranged on the tiny table by the bed, and her sister's goofy pink teddy bear lay on the spread. She'd imagined the six-six redheaded Amazon asleep with a pink teddy bear tucked under her chin and almost giggled.

But her pillows had been all wrong.

Housekeeping entered the students' rooms every day while they were in class, tidying up, making the beds, resupplying the toiletries. But Kat insisted on making her own bed; she said that the familiar chore put her brain in gear for the morning. But the way her three pillows had been arranged was different from the way she always did them. _They must have come for her in the middle of the night. What kind of emergency could be that serious?_

A vague impulse had led her to her sister's closet. None of them had much in the way of street clothes, but Kat's had seemed to be all there, and her last clean coverall had been missing. _She got out of bed and left the grounds in her school uniform? Well, duh: it's all she's got that still fits._ _She'd never squeeze into the clothes she brought from home._

When she'd stepped out the door, the guard had been waiting for her. "What are you doing?"

"It's my sister's room. I wanted to check her stuff, in case anything's missing when she comes back." Turning her back on him, she'd headed on down the hall towards her room. But Bobby's door lay in between, and she couldn't resist putting her hand on the knob.

"That's not your room, Spaulding." The guard had followed her down the hall. He'd looked full of Secret Service menace, complete with Uzi and ear bud with the coil of wire trailing into his shirt collar. _But the mirrored shades when we're ten feet underground seem a bit much._

She'd felt stubborn. "It's my friend's room, and he's gone too, and I'm going to look in on it. What are you going to do, shoot me?" She'd gone in, and instantly known something was wrong: Bobby's guitar had been lying on the bed.

_He wouldn't leave that, not even for an overnight trip. It's all he owns, almost._ She'd recalled how he'd arrived with it, socks and underwear stuffed inside the sound box to meet the volume restrictions of his baggage allowance. _They wouldn't let him take it with him. _Cold fingers had touched her neck and shoulder blades. She'd backed out of the room, scared and a little angry, both feelings unfocused. She'd bumped into something and spun, startled almost out of her wits.

It had been the hall guard; he must have been close enough behind to look over her shoulder, seeing what she was looking at. He'd stepped back hastily, as if she were red-hot.

A plan had formed in her head. Her door was next, but she'd stepped past it to the last on this side, Grunge's.

"Hey." The guard had been two steps behind her. "Forget it. You've been with your boyfriend all afternoon. You're _not_ going into his room thirty minutes before lights out."

She'd stared into the mirrored lenses and very deliberately placed her hand on the doorknob. He'd tensed. "You go in that room, you're going on report. I mean it."

"_Oooh_, going on _report_," she'd said, her anger building. She'd stepped towards him, and made a couple curious observations. The first was the odd slip he'd taken as he'd stepped back, as if he'd suddenly found himself on ice instead of carpet and couldn't get any traction. The second was that he'd stepped back at all; the guy was two hundred pounds of beef, armed with a machine gun, and he was starting back at the approach of a terrier-sized schoolgirl. She'd seen him take a sudden breath and snug his weapon to his chest as if he'd thought she might take it away from him. An incredible revelation had struck her. _He's afraid. He's afraid of me._

She hadn't wasted time wondering why. You didn't need to be a Psych major to know that scared people were dangerous, especially when they were packing automatic weapons. The anger had drained out of her, replaced by caution and cunning. The man had been watching her with the stillness of a lion tamer who'd suddenly realized he'd entered the cage without his whip.

"Sorry," she'd said quietly. "I don't mean to be so edgy." She'd stepped to him slowly, and had carefully laid a hand on his forearm. She'd stared up, trying to look past the lenses to his eyes, but seeing only her own reflection. "Look. I've been fighting with my boyfriend all afternoon, and we only sort of made up. I just want to go in there to make sure the truce is holding and say goodnight. Five minutes, tops. Then I'll go straight to my room and I won't set foot out of it the rest of the night. Okay?"

She'd felt the cords in his arm flexing, even under the shirt. "Go on then."

She'd knocked on Grunge's door and entered without waiting. _Serve him right if I embarrass him._ But he'd been awake, dressed, and reading – a _real_ book that wasn't a textbook; she couldn't make out the title. He'd put it aside hastily as she'd shut the door behind her and put her back against it.

He'd given her his patented heart-melting smile as he'd patted the mattress next to him. "_Hey_, Rox. Not mad anymore, huh?"

"Yes. Very. I'm not staying." His face had fallen, a little boy who'd just been told there was no Santa. _You think I'm a mental defective? If I ever sleep with you, it won't be to keep you from going to another girl. _She'd kept her voice down and her emotions in check. "I just came to warn you that I won't be in first class tomorrow. I'm going to see Nicole."

He'd given her a concerned look that had nothing to do with the way she was treating him, and she felt herself begin to soften. "Don't count on it. Her 'open door' isn't nearly so open since the 'emergency.'"

"Then I'll camp at her door until she sees me."

"What's going on?" He'd swung his feet off the bed and stood.

She'd held up a hand to stop him before he got close enough to challenge her willpower. "I'm not sure. I'll tell you tomorrow when I know more."

"Rox." He'd leaned towards her. "Watch yourself around Nicole. There's more going on than they're telling us, and she's not what she seems."

"Tell me about it. When they hired all this security, who thought they'd put _her_ in charge of them?"

"Who's _they_, Rox? Who runs this place?"

"What? The Dean. Mr. Hardesty."

"Uh huh. Where's his office?"

"Huh? _I _don't know. I never go to see him."

"Have you seen him at all, since the day you came here and he gave you that welcome speech?"

"No, but we see him on TV for school announcements-"

"Which could come from anywhere."

"And they post written notices with his name on it."

"Who posts them?"

"Whatever you're saying, just say it."

"Matt's the PE instructor, but he's also the Dean of Men. Nicole does the same thing for the girls. Dr. Ivery handles all the health issues, from cafeteria menus to the regular checkups. They're our only contacts with school administration, and everything official comes down to us through them. Rox… Matt and Nicole and Ivery run this school."

"So… who hired all the new guards?"

He'd shaken his head. "That's a crock, too. Don't know where these guys came from, but they're not strangers. You can tell by the way they interact. Matt and Nicole and Ivery are _used_ to giving them orders.

"And then there's the way the guards act towards her. You don't see it?" She must have looked blank; he'd continued. "She's just her usual friendly self towards them, same as with us, but the way they act towards _her_ is different as night and day. When Nicole talks to a guy, he moves in and leans close; he can't help himself. Now, most of our security guys are young enough to be in Nicole's dating pool, but when she gets within arm's length of the guards, most of them step back, like they're afraid of touching her. And the ones that _don't_ step back … they freeze like they're scared to move; deer in the headlights. They _sweat_. That's a pretty strange reaction to a hot chick who acts halfway interested."

"Maybe they're shy. Or they've got willpower."

He'd stepped towards her, bringing him almost close enough to touch. "Rox, give it a rest. They know something about her that we don't, and they're scared of her. And it's _not_ just that she's a bitch to work for."

"I'll be careful."

He'd leaned forward again. She smelled soap and clean hair; on him, it was as good as Stetson. "And before you show her too much attitude, you might give some thought to how many people you _didn't_ see in commons today."

She'd wanted to ask him what he meant, but she was out of time, and hadn't wanted to make the guard outside any twitchier. Besides, he was getting _way _too close for her to stay aloof. Setting aside an impulse to kiss him goodnight, she'd opened the door and left. The guard had been standing right by the door, as if he were trying to listen in; she'd wondered what he'd heard.

"Okay," she'd said. "Thanks." She'd headed next door to her own room, and paused with her hand on the knob. "Good night." He hadn't answered. As soon as the latch had clicked, she'd pressed her ear against the door. She'd heard him speaking in a low voice, but couldn't make out the words.

_He's not the same guard who watched us in commons today; how did he know we were together all afternoon? Surely they don't gossip on those radios all day about what every one of us is doing; they'd have no time for anything else. So why me? And why does this big dangerous man behave like I'm a cat and he's a mouse?_

Then, Grunge's last statement had come back to her, and another oddity had risen to mind. The Darwin Academy's class structure kept her pod mates in each others' company exclusively during classes; they were a class of five, taking the same lessons all day, and saw kids from other study groups only during lunch, PE, and after school. It hadn't made any impression at the time, but the cafeteria and commons had been unusually empty.

_How many 'family emergencies' have there been in the other pods?_

She'd felt a sudden stab of alarm._ Where's Sarah?_ The Apache Princess had parted company with them after classes, gone to see a 'friend' in another pod, nothing unusual; but Roxy hadn't seen her come back, and the new security rules didn't permit overnight visits. She'd decided to check Sarah's room, if the guard wasn't in the hall.

She'd opened the door and stuck her head out. The man had been six steps from her door, looking her way; she'd put on her sunniest smile and beckoned. He'd approached cautiously, scowling.

"I was _hoping_ you hadn't left," she'd said. "Do you know if Nicole has office hours tomorrow?"

He'd relaxed. "Can't say."

_Which isn't the same as saying you don't know._ "Okay. Thanks again. Good night." This time, when she'd pressed her ear to her closed door, she'd heard, "Pod Nine. All three in. Lights out in twelve." _So Sarah's still with us; she just came back earlier._

She'd hurried through a shower, put on a beater and boy shorts to sleep in, and brushed her teeth. Since there was no place at the Academy to buy anything, Housekeeping supplied all their toiletries in little hotel-sized packages. She'd noticed all her used stuff had been replaced with new, from her soap to her toothpaste, and she thought the toothpaste had a funny aftertaste tonight. _No telling what kind of generic crap they put in these unmarked containers. Someday I'm going to brush my teeth with pimple cream or something by mistake._ She'd finished her nightly ritual and climbed into bed just as the overhead lights went out. She'd thought about her suspicions, and how she'd confront Nicole in the morning.

_They're moving us a few at a time in the dead of night, no warning, no time to pack, no chance to contact anyone; just roust us out of bed and hustle us out the door. The cover stories are supposed to keep the ones who haven't been moved yet from panicking._ Instead of indignation, she'd felt a curious acceptance about it as she'd settled with unusual ease into sleep. _They're evacuating us to a more secret location where we'll be safe. That's fine, but there's no reason they couldn't let Bobby have his guitar. I'll promise not to tell anyone if she gives me a heads-up and a chance to pack. That's not much to ask. I'll take his guitar … and Kat's stupid bear, too._

She'd drifted off to sleep, and wakened in this nightmare.

_I don't even know who's doing this. Did the Academy wait too long to move us, and the terrorists captured the complex? Or…_

A wave of nausea hit her, and the invisible walls spun. Since she'd been in here, she'd discovered that trying to concentrate made her feel sick and dizzy. The thought came back to her: _if they keep this up for a month, I won't be sure of my own name._

"Spaulding." A man's voice, deep and hoarse-sounding, just loud enough to trip that coming-from-everywhere effect. It sounded like the voice of God. Suddenly, having someone talk to her didn't seem so appealing. She held her breath. _God, what now?_

"Spaulding? You in here?"

_Why would they ask that? Unless…_ She choked down a wild hope. "Yes. Here." Her voice seemed to come from everywhere too. "Who is it?"

"I'm Bobby's father."

"Bobby doesn't have a father."

"_Everybody_ has a father. Come on, it's checkout time."

_If only. _"What are you doing here? Why should I trust you?"

"Because I know the way out, and I've got your clothes. Come and get em."

She swallowed and stood up shakily. "Where are you? I don't know where the door is. I can't see a thing, and I can't tell from your voice."

"It's an electronic gimmick. It uses microphones to pick up the sound of your voice and rebroadcast it, so fast you can't hear the time lag. Just touch the wall with your right hand and start walking until you reach the door. Then I'll pass your clothes through."

"What about a _light_, for chrissakes?"

"There's no light out here either, and the switch doesn't work. Sorry."

She groped her way towards the wall near the mattress, placed her right hand on the smooth, cool surface, stretched her left hand out in front of her, and shuffled forward, her feet making tiny squeaking sounds on the smooth floor. "Don't suppose you could meet me halfway."

"You have to get to the door anyway. You want to risk running into me butt-naked?"

"Do you look like Brad Pitt?"

"Heh. More like Jack Nicholson. I bet _you_ look like a pug. What's the 'R' stand for?"

"Huh?" She felt tired already, as though she'd walked for miles. _Drugs? Darkness? Or just three days spent lying on a mattress?_ She slowed further, expecting to reach the corner at any moment.

"The name patch on your coverall says 'R. Spaulding.' I'll bet it doesn't stand for Rachel or Rebecca."

"Not even close."

"Rosemary? Rolanda? River? How about Rhoda?" She heard fingers snap. "Rita! Sure."

_Am I smiling? It feels like I'm smiling. I'm being Daddy-teased._ It totally embarrassed her girlfriends when their fathers talked to her like this, but they didn't understand. It wasn't flirting, really; the men were just compelled to put their daughters' fatherless little friend with the chip on her shoulder at ease. She thought it was kind of sweet. This man had brought a hint of a smile to her face, for the first time since she'd awakened blind and scared. "Roxy."

"'Roxy.' Now, _that_ goes with the attitude."

"Hey, I'm not at my best right now. I think-"

She collided with a wall, face-first. She tasted blood. "Shit."

"What's wrong?"

"I ran into the wall. My nose is bleeding."

"Maybe you should have had your other hand out."

The fear came back full force. _I did. I remember doing it. Didn't I? Did I drop my hand and not notice, or did I just think I raised it to begin with?_

_What if there's no open door waiting on any of these walls, no kind man come to help?_ She imagined shuffling along the walls, following a stranger's voice urging her on as she circled the cell back to her mattress. Then her imagination, which she'd been keeping locked down tight to keep her fear under control, finally broke loose and ran free. _I don't really know the shape of the room. This is the farthest I've been from the mattress. What if it's not a box at all? What will I tell myself if the next corner becomes an outside corner that turns me right instead of left? What if this isn't a cell, but a maze?_ Her imagination ran further, picturing the maze partitions behind her moving silently in the dark. _If I backtrack right now, will I even find the mattress and toilet? Or just a blank wall? _She'd just keep going, completely lost and aimless, turning this way and that, the directionless voice urging her around and around until she forgot why she was up and moving. Until she was stark staring crazy. _They won't need a month; this is all it'll take to put me right over the edge._

She felt the cool smooth wall bump against the bare skin of her back and butt; she must have fallen against it. Her throat and abused nose began to clog up.

"Spaulding. _Roxy_. You okay?"

"No." Her blind eyes felt pinched and hot. "I can't see. I can't find you. I don't know what day it is, or if it's day or night, or whether I ate five minutes or five hours ago, or how many freaking _hands_ I've got." Now her breathing was tightening up, too. "You're going to have to come to me, because I'm not taking another _step_ in this funhouse until I know you're real."

"Fine. I'll bring your stuff, and we'll go out together. Don't move."

She waited silently. At first she heard footsteps, again coming from everywhere, but they faded quickly, leaving her in the close and silent dark. "Please be real. Please be real," she said, not even whispering, a silent movement of the lips.

"I'm here." His voice was low, and coming from just in front of her. She smelled aftershave; it was better than a garden in full bloom. "Put out your hand."

She did, and her fingertips touched fabric, a shirt with somebody in it. "Oops. Meant to hand you your clothes. You're closer than I thought –" She stepped forward and explored with both hands: a hard chest, ribs. A man, big and warm and solid, more real than the walls. She slid her arms all the way around his waist and pressed herself against him, gripping her own wrist, as if to keep him from getting away. Then a hand as big as a plate pressed against the bare skin of her back, just below the shoulder blades. She felt only a moment's surprise. _What else could I expect? I'm spreading skin all over him; even if he's forty, he's a guy, and he's bound to think it's an invitation. Guys are what they are, and do what they do. Right now, I couldn't let go of him for a million dollars, not even if he grabbed my bare ass. If he wants to cop a feel in return for getting me out of here, it's the bargain of a lifetime. _She tried not to stiffen as she waited for the other hand to settle.

But it found the back of her head instead, and pressed it against his shirt in the dark. "Shh. It's all right, it's okay," he said softly. His fingers combed through her collar-length hair. She felt cloth spread over her back from shoulders to thighs, warming her; she hadn't realized she was shivering. "You're safe now. We'll get the others and go far away from here. You'll never see this place again. Have your cry, Roxy. Then we'll go out to them."

His shirt was warm and wet. _I am crying, aren't I? A gusher, too, feels like. _She felt strangely detached, as if she were watching all of it happening to someone else. She felt hot tears coursing down her cheeks, felt her breath hitching as she sobbed. The big hand at her back kept them firmly together until the storm passed.

Eventually, she found she could loosen the death grip she had on him. Instantly his hands came off her, and he pulled the cloth at her back across her shoulder. "Here. I left your shoes outside the door." His voice was all business again. "Socks and underwear are in the pockets."

She wiped at her eyes. "You _touched_ my underwear?"

"You'd rather do without?"

She felt in the pockets for bra and panties, and let the coverall fall to her feet. "A forty-year-old man's been pawing my goods. _Ewww_."

"Fifty-seven, actually."

"Gawd. You're old enough to be my _grandfather_." She examined the panties by touch; they were the pair she had to shave for. She turned them around, making sure they were right side out, and the strings were untwisted.

"Barely true. And, you know, you're lucky you've _got_ underwear. I almost didn't take it, because I didn't recognize it. Looks like red lace doilies with strings, not a bra and panties. As underwear, I don't see how it would fit a cat."

"You_ must_ be old. You are _so_ behind the times." She tried to step into the thong and caught a toe. She wobbled and lost her balance, falling sideways against him. Instantly his arm was across her collarbone, a hand on her opposite shoulder. "I'm okay. My balance is shot, though. Used to be able to stand on one foot all day."

His hand didn't withdraw this time. Instead, he turned her to face him and slid it up her shoulder until it touched the collar on her neck. She felt the other hand join the first. She smelled his aftershave again, and a puff of breath on her face. "Still feeling strange? The collar should have quit working half an hour ago."

She felt her face flush. For some reason, she was embarrassed, standing blind in front of this guy in her panties with her bra in her hand and his hands on her neck, in a way she hadn't just a minute ago, when she'd had her arms around him wearing nothing. "What's it supposed to do?"

The collar came free and clattered to the floor, loud enough that the coming-from-everywhere effect was triggered again. She felt him step back. "It heterodynes your brainwaves."

"Say what?"

"Keeps you feeling confused and out of sorts. Screws up your balance and motor control. Induces false sensory impressions. In other words, screws your head up good. But you should have been feeling better by now. Must have had it turned way up."

She swallowed. "I do feel better, sort of. I don't think I can trust my balance, though. And my hearing's going in and out." She almost put the bra on inside out, but caught it.

"Just sensory deprivation, then. Or maybe they've been feeding you something."

She decided to sit to get the coverall started, rather than try standing on one foot again. "Look, I'm _real_ glad you're here, Mr. Lane-"

"Lynch."

"Huh?"

"Our real name is Lynch."

"Oh. Anyway … the clinch, a minute ago. It was a once-in-a-lifetime thing. I wouldn't want you to think I'm …"

"Understood. I'm not telling anybody. It would ruin my image."

The socks were on; she started pulling the coveralls up her legs as she wriggled her bare butt on the floor. The thing seemed determined to snag every six inches. "Yeah, but …I … don't get me wrong, okay? I just don't know where you think this might go. I mean-"

"Oh, give it a _rest_, Spaulding. I _get_ it. You're not my cuddle puppy; I doubt you're _anybody's_ cuddle puppy. As soon as you see me in the light, you'll know I'm not either. We had a lifeboat moment. It's over. Get dressed and let's blow this joint."

"Okay. Thanks."

"Frankly, compared to your girlfriend next door, you're almost modest. She wouldn't even let me pass her clothes through the doorway; said she wasn't going to stay in that cage another second. Walked out starkers, took her clothes out of my hand, and started dressing. Didn't even ask me to turn my back."

She finally had the coveralls pulled up to her waist, and her feet poked out. She stood and started to put her arms in the sleeves. "_Had_ to be Sarah."

"'S. Rainmaker.' Indian girl?"

"Yep. So, did you?"

"Turn my back? No, I left the room, quick as a cork from a champagne bottle, and came for you. I'd already fetched clothes for the big redhead. I thought I should leave the boys for last."

"Thank you for _that_." She zipped up. "Ready. Which way is out?"

"Take my hand. No wisecracks." He led her across the room, out of reach of the walls. Several steps later, something told her they were going through a doorway.

"It's still dark."

"Told you. There are two more doors before we reach the corridor. This room was set up to keep you from getting a glimmer of light." He pressed her shoes into her hand and waited for her to put them on, again sitting on the floor; then he tugged her gently down a wide hall for a few steps. They went through another unseen door into what seemed to be a much narrower hallway. They reversed direction, walked a few more steps, and stopped. "We're at the last door. Close your eyes and let them adjust. You might want to cover them, too."

He pushed open the door, and dazzling brilliance flooded in. She swayed, and Mr. Lynch put an arm around her and drew her close, steadying her. The light pierced her closed lids, making her feel weak and dizzy. She covered them with one hand as they stepped out together.

She opened her eyes a sliver, and saw that they were in a long wide corridor, antiseptic white. She thought she could see other doors down both sides, spaced every fifty feet or so, until the corridor curved out of sight in both directions; a little school-sized cubby, doorless, stood beside each door. Then a shadow moved in front of her.

"Oh dear God." She'd never heard Sarah so distraught. "What did they _do_ to her?"

"Nothing permanent, I hope. But she got special treatment, I don't know why."

"They _beat_ her?" She felt arms circle her tightly, and Mr. Lynch released her. "Is she all right?"

"No," she said breathlessly. "You're squishing me. It's just a bloody nose. I walked into a wall."

"Roxanne, the side of your face is blood all over. You look like you should have a concussion."

She touched the side of her head. She could feel it now, turning sticky where the tears hadn't made runnels in the mess. Through tightly squinting eyes, she looked at her hand; it was smeared with red. _I didn't hit that hard, did I?_

"Don't panic," she heard Mr. Lynch say. "It's not your blood. It's from resting your head on my chest, I think."

Her vision was beginning to clear, though the corridor still looked blindingly lit. She could just make out Mr. Lynch, standing near: a blurry figure dressed in black from neck to feet. His shirt seemed to have a darker stain, a glistening patch right at her head level. She raised her slitted eyes to his face and saw a horror.

"Gawd. What _happened_ to you?" He looked like the Phantom of the Opera, the left side of his face a scarred ruin, the eye dead. She thought of how she'd _wrapped_ herself around him and accepted his embrace; it made her feel queasy. She averted her eyes. "Are you shot?"

"No. It's not _my_ blood either." He turned away slightly, showing less of the normal side of his face and more of the gargoyle mask as he looked down the corridor. "There were fourteen guards down here. They didn't all run away because I said 'Boo.'"

She felt dizzy. "Did you …"

"Not all of them. They _did_ run, eventually. The ones that were left."

Her eyes slid towards his face and away again. Her mind kept going back to that moment in the dark, and seeing it in the light of her new knowledge. "Sarah, where's Kat?"

"Freeing the others. Mr. Lynch says we have to hurry; more goons will be coming soon. If you listen, you can hear glass crashing. She's just knocking down the outer doors to let in light, smashing the glass, throwing clothes through, and going on to the next one."

"We're _all _here? Where did they take us?"

"Nowhere," Mr. Lynch said. "You're under the Academy. They built this first."

Suddenly he bent over her; his face was a foot in front of hers. Involuntarily, she shut her eyes.

"It's a _face_, Spaulding." The voice was still as she remembered; so was the aftershave. "Badly used, but still a face. Open your eyes."

She took a breath and raised her eyelids. He wasn't smiling, which would have made it worse. The good eye stared kindly at her; the dead eye looked at nothing. "Take a good look," he said gently. "It's easier that way. Satisfy your morbid curiosity, or whatever." He touched the furrows on his forehead. "About the time you were learning to talk, I got in the way of about sixty pounds of scrap metal propelled by exploding rocket fuel. The man running in front of me was chopped into hamburger. The one next to me caught a chunk the size of your hand in his throat. I count myself very lucky. I see as well through one eye as most people do with two, and it doesn't even hurt anymore, except to look at. Okay?"

She swallowed. "Kay."

He straightened. "I'm going for the boys, before the redhead gets back."

"I could help," she offered.

He snorted. "Not on your life, Spaulding. You want to satisfy _that _curiosity, you'll have to ask the guy first."

He disappeared into an adjacent door. She looked at the one they'd come out of, and noticed that the wall in front of her cell bulged into the corridor. _My extra door._

Sarah's arm circled her waist. Normally, she'd have felt weird letting Sarah touch her, at least _this_ up close and personal, but she doubted the girl was looking for a date; and besides, the human contact just felt too good to give up right now. Sarah rubbed at Roxy's face with a sleeve; the action made her think of a cat washing her kitten. The Apache Princess made a disgusted sound. "It's drying too fast. I'm just smearing it around. We need water."

She leaned into the older girl. "I wanted to ask him how long I was in there."

"Was I missing from school at all?"

"No."

"Four days, then."

"How do you know? I tried counting meals but I lost track."

Sarah lifted her eyes towards the ceiling. "Don't ask me how… but I _know_ the sun rose and set four times while I was in that cell. It's Saturday night."

"I woke up in that cell. I'm sure they drugged me somehow."

"Me too. I went to my room to take a shower, right after class. I don't remember making it out of the bathroom."

_What would that guard have done, if I'd gone into Sarah's room and found her passed out? _"Maybe what they gave us took a day to wear off."

"Maybe, but I think I'd know." She shrugged. "We'll find out soon enough."

She felt a tiny smile turning up the corners of her mouth; it felt damn good. "You know, you shocked the old boy, walking out to him in your birthday suit."

Sarah shrugged again. "What was the point? He'd already seen anything he wanted to."

"Oh?"

"All those mirrors on the walls and ceiling. When I was in the cell, it seemed obvious they were one-way. As soon as I stepped into the outer chamber, I saw I was right. Didn't you notice?"

"Sarah, I haven't seen my _hands_ for four days. There aren't any lights in there."

Startled, Sarah looked at her, still blinking and squinting, then at the cell door with the extra chamber. "Bastards," she said softly. "I wish he'd killed them all." Her voice was so expressionless, Roxy couldn't doubt the girl meant every word.

Kids from other pods started emerging from the ruined doors in twos and threes. Embarrassed, she slipped in front of Sarah, hiding her face from the crowd filling the hallway behind them. Most of them looked pretty shocky; some were sobbing. One of those was Jenny from Pod Eleven. Barry, a boy from her pod, reached for her and put his arms around her. _Weird. Barry's a born-again, one of the ten guys in school who haven't been in her pants. Where are all her lovers now?_ The thought was one of pity rather than malice, even though she now doubted Grunge was one of the ten.

A hollow _boom_ echoed from far down the corridor; Kat was working through some issues, it seemed.

Mr. Lynch came out the door alone. "He's moving a little slow, but he'll be out in a minute." He glanced at the gathering crowd. Pitching his voice high, he said, "Everybody wait here until I come back out. Caitlin, especially, if she comes back before I do." He stared at the last door in the corridor and took a deep breath. Then he stepped to it, touched the handle, and after a short hesitation went in.

She said, "Did he tell you he's Bobby's father?"

"Yes." Sarah was staring at the closed door.

Suddenly they were both encircled from behind by a pair of arms. "Are you guys okay?" Her sister's voice. Caitlin got a look at her face and gasped.

"_Not_ what it looks like, Kat. I just need to clean up, is all."

"Our rescuer just went into Bobby's cell," Sarah said. "I imagine he'll be in there a while. He said for all of us to stay put until he comes out."

One of the girls, Julie Rabinovitz, pushed forward. "Like hell. I'm getting out before they come back." She walked past them without a glance their way and disappeared around the curve in the hall.

Grunge ambled out his door, rubbing his shoulder. He took one look at her and rushed over, spreading his arms and taking the three of them in. "Jeez, Rox. You must have _really _pissed her off."

"Ouch," she said weakly. "Somebody call a play."

"Eddie," Kat said quietly. "Watch the hands." The group broke up.

Barry still had Jen's tacky face pressed to his shoulder, and his fingers twined in the wavy blonde hair at the back of her head. "Does anybody know what's going on? Or what we're supposed to do next?" He and Jen still had their collars on, she noticed. Some of the other kids had gotten theirs off, but nobody was helping people remove the damn things. _What if they come back on while they're wearing them? Will they fall into a trance and walk meekly back into their cells?_

Kat must have had a similar thought. She grabbed Jen's collar and gave it the same twist Mr. Lynch had given hers; it parted between her hands, and she slipped it off and dropped it to the floor. As she reached for Barry's, Roxy heard other collars hitting the concrete.

"We've been had," Kat said, loud enough for everyone to hear. "Whoever these people are, whatever's happening to us, they didn't bring us out here in the middle of nowhere to teach us calculus and American History." She glanced at the door to Bobby's cell. "But we're getting out of here. And we've got help, serious help. I think if we do what this man tells us, we'll be okay."

A boy in the back of the crowd spoke up. "There's a door at the end of the hall that looks like it's the bottom of a stair well. Remember how the stairway was all caged off, so you couldn't go down to the bottom? But I can't get it open."

Mr. Lynch came out the door, his mouth a thin line. "Be glad you didn't. We're not going that way."

"All our stuff is up there!" One girl shouted out.

"So are thirty armed men. Or were." He made a sweeping gesture that included the space above them. "This is a tighter lockup than a Supermax. You're in an underground prison with reinforced concrete walls two feet thick, in a frozen wilderness a hundred miles from any other human habitation. The perimeter fence has lethal current running through the wire. The guard force is almost half the size of the inmate population, and armed with automatic weapons. And all that was in the _minimum_ security section upstairs." The look he gave them would have been chilling, even with two good eyes. "They must have been scared to death that you'd escape or get out of control. In the security office on Level One, there's a bank of buttons that flood the different levels with gas. Before I came down here, I pumped the upper level full of anesthetic. I think." He lifted his chin, glancing up to the blank ceiling. "There was another button to flood it with Sarin. I don't _think_ I mixed them up. Anyway, you don't want to go up there. Your stuff is gone forever, but you've got your lives and your sanity." He turned to Kat. "Everybody out okay?"

She nodded. "Everyone's out. How okay they are, I can't say. There are only forty cells. They packed half of them with three kids each, the rest with two – except us."

"Yeah. You five were put in solitary confinement. Interesting." He addressed the rest of the group again, gesturing down the corridor. "We're going to have to split up into small groups and run for our lives. Do _not_ go back home. You'll be rounded up and made to disappear, along with anybody who's seen or heard from you. Unless you're prepared to put their lives in jeopardy, don't attempt to contact anyone you know. Most especially, don't contact family or friends. They can't help you, and you'll only be forcing them to share your danger.

"Just around the bend is the guardroom – lockers, showers, and armory. I've been through it once already; I just need to make sure the ones who ran stayed gone. When I know it's safe I'll come back for you. We'll ransack the place for whatever we can use. Take clothes, cash, and keys, especially car keys. Do _not_ take credit cards; IDs either. You'll need expert forgeries; I can help with that. Do _not_ take any guns." He gave them all a fierce look. "You're going to be hunted by men who know how to _use_ guns; a weapon in your hands is just a license to shoot you dead." She noticed _he _was packing: a pistol in a black nylon holster under his left shoulder, and some odd gadget, a taser maybe, clipped to his belt on his right hip. He turned. "I'll be back."

"I could help with that," Kat said. Roxy watched her sister's fist close and open and close. She noticed for the first time the way Kat's hair was plastered to her head, as if she'd been sweating like a pig in her sleep. Her eyes were sort of staring as she looked down the corridor. She didn't look all there.

"No." He stepped close and laid his hand on Kat's knuckles, and she shivered. He looked past her into the crowd. "If there are any others among you with an itch to try your powers against your keepers, forget it. What I said about guns goes double for you. Some of you may be able to laugh off bullets someday, but for now, forget it. The talents are too new, and they're not under proper control. You can't rely on them in a fight against armed men. So leave this to me." He turned back up the corridor. Roxanne began to feel uneasy the moment he disappeared around its curve.

She turned to her sister. "'Powers?'"

Kat studied her fist. "Those glass panels are two inches thick. I've been smashing them with this. See any marks?" She dropped it. "When I hit them, they felt like peanut brittle. The steel doors seemed as flimsy as cardboard. The whole _world_ feels like it's made of Styrofoam and modeling clay." She turned to Sarah. "What about you?"

Sarah looked uncomfortable. "If I tell you, you'll think I'm turning New Age. Or make some crack about the Noble Savage."

"You know me better than that. Give."

"I feel … more closely connected to nature."

Grunge started to say something; Kat waved him to silence. "Could that be useful, do you think?"

"Even when I was a child, I never got lost. I could wander in the woods for hours and always be back in time for dinner. Now…" Sarah pointed at an angle over her shoulder. "North is that way. It's about an hour past sunset. It snowed a little yesterday, and it's going to snow a _lot_ by noon tomorrow, but the night is clear, and the temperature's dropping like a stone. So we'd better dress warm. And we have a full moon to travel by."

"O-kay. Bobby's new trick has something to do with heat, I'm guessing. Eddie?"

He shrugged. "Sometimes things feel … _different_ when I touch them. And my skin feels weird."

"I bet you're not done yet. Be careful." Kat looked down at her. "Well? Anything odd before you woke up here?"

She thought about it. The only thing weird that had happened that last day was the way the guard had acted, but it was too vague to mention. Then she remembered the doctor's office. "I changed the reading on Dr. Ivery's scale."

"A power women will kill to possess," Grunge intoned. "Guard the secret with your life."

"I don't know what _that's _the start of, but you be careful too."

Sarah looked towards Bobby's door. "Shouldn't he be out by now?"

Grunge rubbed his shoulder again. "Maybe the old dude knocked_ him_ on his ass, too."

"_What?_"

"Yeah. I've had nothing to do but practice katas for days, in a hall of mirrors like Bruce Lee in _Enter the Dragon_, getting a _serious _attitude and feeling as bad as bad gets. I'm waiting by the door for somebody to come through, gonna take them down and make a break. Finally, it opens up and I jump for whoever's behind it. Next thing I know, I'm facedown and there's a _foot_ on my neck and my arm is twisted straight up behind me. The old dude is _good_."

Sarah stepped towards the door. "We should see about Bobby."

Grunge slid in front of her. "Whoa, there. I'll go see. He might not be dressed yet."

She brushed past him. "I've seen a man." She entered the door and let it close itself behind her.

Grunge looked after her. "Can _anybody_ tell me what's up with those two?"

Roxy told him, "A mutual attraction to forbidden fruit, is my guess." _Kind of like our relationship. _"I doubt it'll ever go anywhere." _Ours likewise, I think sometimes. Were you really that desperate for some tail? Or don't you think it's cheating, because you've never used The Word?_

Shots sounded somewhere up the hallway, a string of reports that sent crashing echoes down the hall towards them. Kids screamed and stampeded for the doors. The three of them bolted for Bobby's cell.

She was the last in. She saw that this cell had a sort of light-lock too, but a simpler one, consisting of a small room with a door at each end. She didn't enter the inner chamber, just glanced inside as the inner door slowly closed. The first thing she noticed was that the cell really_ was_ a glass box enclosed in a larger room. Looking at it from inside, the inner room was all mirrors; the mattress and toilet were endlessly reflected off the walls. The second was that only the cell was lighted, from recessed fixtures inside the ceiling; the outer chamber that surrounded it made do with the diffused light that came through the glass. The third was Bobby, sitting on the floor fully dressed, with Sarah kneeling behind him with her arms around him, her long black hair falling over his shoulders and almost brushing the floor as she leaned over him. They both looked up in surprise as Kat and Grunge entered. _How could they be so into each other they didn't hear gunshots out in the hall?_

More gunfire sounded through the open doors, just before the outer one closed itself: single shots from a different weapon, it seemed to her. The two on the floor started at the sound. "What _now_?"

A single thought filled her: _he's out there all alone._ Kat and Grunge moved into the room, towards Bobby and Sarah, as the inner door closed completely; she backed out into the hall. _Maybe no one noticed me come in; I was only there a few seconds. Maybe they'll think I ran into another room._ She headed up the hall, hugging the innermost-curving wall. As soon as the last door was out of sight behind her, the corridor curved more sharply, and angled upward slightly.

As she crept along, she noticed some things about the corridor. It wasn't as pristine as she'd first thought; the white paint was spalled in places, exposing the concrete underneath, in a pattern suggesting bullet marks. The floor was marked with a red smear-trail down the length of the corridor, as far as she could see in either direction. It looked as though at least one bleeding body had been dragged the length of the hall. _He said he'd been through the guardroom before he came to us. There was a firefight in the hallway outside my room, and I never heard it. The rooms are soundproofed, big time. _Her throat got tight. _They must have been planning on a lot of noise from the cells._

A body appeared around the curve of the wall: a stranger, dressed in hunting camo, crumpled against the wall. His head and one arm were grotesquely twisted. His weapon, an assault rifle, lay by the opposite wall, as if thrown there.

"Get down on your knees, hands behind your head." A man's voice, a stranger. Her heart leaped into her throat before she realized it was coming from somewhere out of sight up the corridor. "_Do_ it. Or I swear I'll put a bullet in her." She moved forward cautiously, still hugging the inside wall.

"If you do, you'll lose your shield," Mr. Lynch's voice replied. "Counter offer. You try to hang on to the girl, you die. You keep your piece, you die. Let her go and kick your weapon to me, you live."

Two more steps brought the scene into view. The corridor ended at a set of blank steel double doors. In front of them stood another man dressed in camo, facing Mr. Lynch from a distance of maybe twenty feet. He was twice Mr. Lynch's size, and he looked scared. But not as scared as the girl he was holding in front of him, pinned in place with a massive forearm. Julie's head was bleeding on one side, she was pouring tears, and she looked scared to death. Both her hands were gripping the guy's wrist, to absolutely no effect. The man held a pistol an inch from her temple.

The man suddenly pointed his gun toward Mr. Lynch.

"You tried that before, fella. Won't work this time either."

"What about your little knockaround piece, the one behind you?" The man stared past Mr. Lynch, and she suddenly realized the gun was pointed at _her_. "Will it work on her?"

_Great. He can't protect me and face this man down at the same time. I came to help, and I've turned into a burden. _Then she remembered the dorm guard's unexplained fear. She gathered her courage, met the man's eyes, and slowly raised her bloody hand and flipped him the bird. "None of this is _my _blood, buttwipe. And your popgun won't work on _me_, either." She theatrically touched a tongue to her upper lip, to the only blood on her face that was hers, and moved deliberately to the other side of the hall, staring at the man the whole time; the sudden confidence that had appeared in his eyes when he first saw her was gone now. Julie was staring at her too, her own fear forgotten for a moment. "'Knockaround piece.' If he lets you live, I am gonna bust you up _soo_ bad."

_Anger. Gotta banish the fear and get my mad on._ She let her imagination conjure up a few things the two camo boys might have been up to with Julie before Mr. Lynch interrupted them. She felt her anger building, and kept her attention focused on the man holding her schoolmate.

The man suddenly flung his gun hand up, as if he'd slipped or taken a hard push. The weapon went off, and a bullet ricocheted off the ceiling. Julie slipped under his arm and bolted; she would have run all the way back to the cells if Mr. Lynch hadn't caught her wrist. "Calm down," he said, not even looking at her, staring spookily at the man. "_Walk_ back to the others. Tell them everything's okay, but _wait_."

Julie was shaking like a leaf. "There's another one."

"I know." Mr. Lynch stared at the blank steel doors. "I see him. Go on now."

The other man dropped his pistol; his hand was shaking so bad, she thought, he couldn't have aimed it anyway. One of his eyes filled with blood, the white part turning bright red. He kicked the weapon away. "I'm done." Blood started streaming from his nose; he dabbed at it and stared at his hand. "It's over. Chrissakes, just stop." His voice rose, sounding panicky. "Please." He wobbled as if he might faint. Now blood started leaking from his ears, too.

Mr. Lynch shook his head slightly. "It was too late before you dropped the gun." That was when she noticed the weird yellow light, sourceless and pale, softly washing the walls. "If you believe in God, pray. You don't have long."

The man clapped his hands to his ears, as if to hold back the flood. He took one step towards them before he fell to his knees. "Oh, god," he said in a lost voice. Mr. Lynch stepped up to him and pushed on the side of his head where his hand covered it. The man fell sideways, out of the way of the door, and lay on his side near the wall, a pool of blood spreading under his head. He stilled.

"You know, Spaulding, you ignored two orders I gave you not ten minutes ago." He was still staring at the blank doors, his back to her. The cooling corpse at his feet seemed gone from his mind. "You didn't wait for me, and you went up against an armed man with nothing but your power."

"I … didn't do anything. I just moved so he couldn't shoot us both at the same time. And then I distracted him." It hit her then: the risk she'd taken, and what she'd just seen.

"Little girl, _I_ didn't make him lose his balance." He raised his voice. "All right. I know you're there, not five feet from the door. It's just you and me now. Let's not waste time. Do you know who I am?"

Silence from the other side of the doors. She counted heartbeats. _Ten is probably three seconds, the way it's pounding._

He suddenly roared. "_DO YOU KNOW! WHO! I! AM!"_ She gasped; each word was a whipcrack that made her flinch.

From the closed door: "No. No." A pause. "I don't know."

"Meaning yes. All the stories are true, and you'll never hear the worst of them, because I'm the only one left to tell them. When I came through the front gate, there were sixty people between me and this spot. The eight smartest ones are over the horizon by now. The rest are in dreamland or Valhalla. Do us both a favor. Put your weapon on the floor and slide it through the door. Your knife and sidearm too. I'll tie you up, and you can wait for the reaction team."

No answer from the other side of the doors.

"Son, do you want to die today?" The ghost light seemed to brighten slightly. A sheet of newspaper slid out from under the door and scuttled towards him. _But there's no wind; the air in here is still as a tomb._ The debris reached him and whirled around his legs, rising as high as his knees before it settled back to the floor. "I can do it from here, without even seeing you. There's no cover, no shield or concealment between us." His voice grew softer, until it was barely at conversation level. "I'd rather not do it, truly. Give me a choice. Help me save you. Push your weapon through. Count of five. Four. Three. Two."

She heard a bump and the doors parted slightly, opening towards them. A foot from the floor, a gun muzzle slowly poked out, pointed down. It pushed through the door for a foot of its length and stopped.

Mr. Lynch stepped sideways almost casually as the gun jerked up and fired a burst. She screeched and dropped to the floor, hugging the wall.

There was a heavy thud, and the weapon clattered to the floor, still between the double doors. But one of them swung open, kicked by a third camo-clad man lying on the floor in the midst of a seizure. His head and limbs jerked and his mouth opened and closed; it made her think of a fish out of water. The man gave a couple more jerks and lay still.

Mr. Lynch shuddered and placed a hand on the wall, leaning over like a runner after a long race. She crossed the corridor and came up behind him. Gingerly, she rested a hand on his shoulder. "Are you okay?"

His chin dropped to his chest, and he took a breath. "Will be. When you reach for it quick, it pulls back hard when you let go."

She shook her head, knowing he couldn't see. "I don't know what you're talking about. What did you _do_ to them?"

"I don't know. I'm no doctor. I just hit them hard enough and something breaks." He straightened and looked down at the corpses. "Sometimes they go quick as switching off a light. Other times it seems to take forever." His voice got distant and colorless. "I don't like killing people. Never did. I'm good at it, I know, but I don't enjoy it. Even in self-defense, killing someone steals a little bit of your soul, you know?" Another deep breath. "I've been doing this sort of thing, off and on, for almost forty years. Tonight I killed more people than Charlie Manson. Maybe as many as Calley, if I'm wrong about the gas. And I'm in competition with Jim Jones for lifetime achievement. You've got to wonder how much of my soul I have left."

The words and the tone of his voice wrenched at her heart, filling her with fear … but pity too. With his back turned, it was easier to remember the fatherly man in the dark. She removed her hand from his shoulder and slid it between his ribs and his arms; he stiffened, but only for an instant. She did the same with her other hand, wrapping her arms around him from behind, and caught another whiff of his aftershave. Gently, she pressed the side of her face against his back. "I don't know who those people are, but I'm sure you're not like any of them. Thank you, for helping us. We didn't have a chance without you, I'm sure of it."

He placed a hand on her wrists. "I don't deserve gratitude. I wasn't coming for all of you, not at first. It seemed too risky. My original plan was to take Bobby alone; meet him up topside, and smuggle him out in my car. While I was casing the place, I saw how they kept you in tight little groups, and I was afraid he'd refuse to leave without his team mates, so I decided to break all five of you out. That made my plan so complex that breaking _everyone _out was hardly more ambitious, and an escape that size might keep IO busy while we went to ground."

He cleared his throat. "I had my groundwork started, barely, when something unexpected happened. I knew that IO was expecting you to manifest a few at a time, three to five a week. And I knew they planned to isolate you for a while when that happened, but I couldn't get the details; security was too tight. When _all_ of you started manifesting in the same week, the security slipped a bit … and I got a closer look at what they had in mind for you. It made me _very_ glad I'd decided to get you all out." He pressed his hand against hers. "Roxy. Listen. Right now, those kids need guidance. They need someone they can respect and take orders from, someone with all the answers. I can't be that person if they think I get weepy over making the hard choices."

"Lifeboat moment. No problemo." She let go of him and took her hands back. The palms were red to the wrists. "Aaaa! How can you _stand_ it?"

"You get used to it. After you've been sprayed with intestines or brains or bone fragments, a little blood doesn't seem like such a big deal."

"Gulp. Word?"

"What word?"

"I mean, is that for real?"

He nodded. "Oh, yeah."

She surveyed the scene; it looked like the set of a horror movie. "Mr. Lynch. We have to do something about this. I don't know about the others, but my sister will blow chunks before she gets to the doors."

"You have a sister here?"

"Kat. Caitlin."

"Caitlin Fairchild is your sister?" _Something odd in his tone._

"Half sister. Same dad. We found out here."

"Humph. _She's _got a weak stomach? That Amazon?"

She nodded. "She gets queasy during the first aid demos. One time in the cafeteria, one of the servers sliced his hand open on a steam tray; she couldn't touch her lunch. The worst was when we were out on the trails. Once the leaves started falling, there were lots of places you could see the perimeter fence while you're walking. Anyhow, we're out in the woods, and we hear this loud _pop_. Somehow a deer had got past the outer fence and blundered into the hot one." She jerked her head. "That's when we found out how much juice was going through the middle fence. The current pulses about once a second; the first shock had made it spasm, and it put a leg through the links and got trapped. Every time the juice hit it, it looked like it was exploding. You could smell it cooking, and it started … coming apart. Kat left two meals on that trail, I swear." She looked at the three bodies: the twisted-up one, the man in the doorway who'd died looking like a fish that had fallen out of its tank, and the big guy, lying in a pool of blood three feet across. "If she sees this, she'll toss her stomach lining, I know it."

"The mess I made on my first walk down this hall was worse. I've been cleaning up as I go."

"I noticed the trail on the floor earlier."

"Uh huh. Doesn't seem to bother you any."

"Rough high school. They mopped blood off the floor pretty regular."

"Ha, ha."

"I'm not kidding. Inner city school. Four big ethnic groups, maybe half a dozen gangs. Kids get beat up or stabbed every week. The cops were in there regular, leaning kids up against their lockers for a pat down, or taking them off to jail. Couple rapes a semester – reported ones, that is. Emergency vehicles should have had their own slot in the lot. Nobody got killed while I was there, though."

She looked at the twisted man, with his assault rifle nearby. "This one looks like he was trying to kill you. The kid in the doorway was just too scared to give up, I think. But he'd have shot you if you let him. This one …" She looked at the body at her feet, the one who'd threatened to kill Julie, and had got that strange look in his eye when he'd called her a knockaround. "This one makes me glad you gassed the top floor. If he'd got into the control room, he wouldn't have thought twice about flooding the lower level with Sarin. Who _are_ these guys?"

"They must have been out patrolling the fence when I came through the gate. Maybe their shift was over, or maybe they couldn't raise anybody on the radio and came in to check it out. I'll get them out of here."

"Can I help?" An unappetizing prospect, but she'd do it.

"Yes, but not with this." He pushed open the other door and stepped past the body; she saw that the doors swung both ways. He held it open for her, and she entered the guardroom. The blood trail continued through the door, past several long double rows of wardrobe-sized lockers secured with padlocks. At the other end of the locker room, she saw that the trail went through a large open doorway; the floor and walls changed to tile on the other side, and it smelled of damp and something else. _Shower room_. "Stay out of there," he said, and then pointed off to the right. "Just past those lockers is a place where you can clean up. I want to send you back for the others, and you'll be a lot more reassuring if you don't look like you've been butchering hogs." He headed back towards the doors.

The place he'd directed her to was a sort of open utility area. It included a big utility tub with a shelf and soap, a big mirror over the sink, and a paper towel dispenser. A fire extinguisher and suitcase-sized first aid kit hung from the wall next to the mirror. The plumbing for the tub branched off to a low faucet with a floor drain beneath it, presumably for the large wheeled bucket and wringer nearby. A mop stood leaning against the wall next to it.

She examined herself in the mirror. _My God. I look like I've been in a car crash._ The right side of her head was painted red with blood, as well as her nose, upper lip, and under her chin. Her hair was matted with it; her eye looked back at her from a scarlet mask. Her fingers, palms and the inside of her wrists were sticky with the stuff, along with the blue fabric of her cuffs. _I don't even know whose blood it is. _Looking at her reflection made her skin crawl.

She turned on the taps, adjusted the temperature, and got busy. She started by scrubbing her hands until the water rinsed clear instead of pink. Then she washed her face, using paper towels for a washcloth. Getting her hair clean, she decided, was going to involve ducking her head under the faucet, which would soak her coverall.

From the front of the room, she heard the swinging doors thump as Mr. Lynch entered. The bumps and slithery sounds he was making as he traveled towards the showers told her all she wanted to know about what he was doing on the other side of the lockers. She wondered briefly how many bodies he'd had to drag into the shower already, and decided she didn't want to know.

She unzipped the coverall and pulled her arms out of the sleeves. The garment fit better than a tent, and it had a little elastic at the waist, but it was no leotard; her hips weren't big enough to keep it up around her waist, so she had to tie the sleeves around her to keep it from heading straight for the floor.

Then she worked up a thick lather in her hands, and scrubbed soap into her hair, repeating until her scalp tingled. _Could have used my fingernails about now. _The matted strands loosened up, and she ducked her head under the warm water, sending the disgusting mess down the drain. After doing it all a second time, she felt halfway presentable. She untied the sleeves to put her coverall back on, but decided they'd clean up better if she wasn't wearing them. She wet them under the faucet and rubbed bar soap into them, inside and out, and started rubbing them together vigorously. _Probably won't get them clean, but at least I won't be leaving smears on everything I touch._

"If you're about – oops."

"Hey!" Startled, she let the soapy cloth slip from her fingers. In an instant, the coverall was down to her knees before she caught it and yanked it up around her. "Do you _mind_?"

"Sorry." His voice sounded echoey; he was back on the other side of the lockers. "Just came in for the mop bucket. I didn't expect you to be skinning down again." She heard a coughing sound, and she realized he was choking back a laugh. The whole ridiculous situation hit her then, and she started giggling. Mr. Lynch laughed out loud. After a little while, they both settled down. "Ah. Ah," he said, still on the other side of the lockers. "A glimpse of returning normalcy, one can hope."

"I can't _believe_ I just went spastic over you seeing the back of my bra." Then she replayed the business with the falling coverall. She'd spread her legs quickly to keep it from heading straight to the floor, and she thought she'd bent over a little to snatch it up from around her knees. _God._ "That _is_ all you saw, right?"

"Nothing else to see."

"So you didn't see me drop my pants?"

He snorted. "Like I said, nothing to see."

"Come _on_."

"No, Spaulding," he said indulgently, "I didn't get another look at … that cat's cradle you wear instead of underpants. I didn't see your _bony_ little butt, and I definitely missed my chance to admire that _adorable_ birthmark."

She smiled as she stuck her hands back into the sleeves. "Pig. I don't have a birthmark. And my butt's not _that_ little, or bony either. I have it on good authority it's perfect."

"I've _diapered_ bigger butts. And a girl your age shouldn't be inviting reviews about the shape of her derriere."

"Insert smart comment about fatherhood _here_." She zipped up. "Okay, you can come get your bucket. But I'm not done."

He stepped around the lockers. "Understood. I'll give you plenty of warning when I come back with it." He looked her over as he rolled the bucket under the wall faucet and started filling it. "You know, you clean up okay. Not like a pug at all." He touched her hair and showed her a dab of pink foam. "Missed a couple spots though."

She turned back to the mirror, dismayed. "I washed it _twice_."

"Bar soap's no substitute for shampoo." He gave her an odd look, then went on. "And blood is troublesome stuff. It's like penetrating lubricant when it's wet, and turns to glue when it dries. It gets into everything and won't come out easily." He looked down at his black shirt. "It's easier to hide than remove. Mopping the floor won't really clean it; it'll just make it less obvious what you're stepping in. Stuff just spreads too fast and dries too quick."

"I'll say. It wasn't in my hair more than a few minutes before it started stiffening up." _Is that why he's in black from head to toe, to hide bloodstains? I just thought it was part of the whole ninja commando thing he has going on._ She looked at her sticky cuffs; she could feel the material hardening from the drying blood, even mixed with soap.

Then a question jumped in front of her train of thought and derailed it. _Where did the blood across his stomach come from?_

The blood on his stomach was lots fresher than the stuff on his chest. She'd felt that when she'd pressed her head against him, but she'd mistaken it for her own tears. The stuff on his stomach had been warm and fresh enough that she hadn't noticed it until she saw it on her hands.

She reached for the bucket faucet and turned it off. Before he said anything, she told him, "Take your shirt off."

"Just as soon not."

She started water running in the tub and plugged the drain. "You lied to me." She pointed at his stomach. "That's _your_ blood."

He raised an eyebrow. "The stuff that was on your face wasn't. You didn't ask me about the other."

She narrowed her eyes. "I specifically asked if you were hurt."

"You specifically asked if I was _shot_. This is a stab wound." He didn't move to take off his shirt. She looked for a tear or hole, but didn't see one. The tub was half full; she shut off the water.

"As if it makes any difference. You sound like some stupid boy. What were you _thinking_? You said you were here to get us out. How are you gonna do that if you bleed to death?"

The corner of his mouth lifted. "I'm not bleeding to death. It's just a little cut. But it keeps opening up when I move."

"Oh. Well, okay then. Just keep going like that until you pass out from shock. And you seemed like such a smart guy at first. Mr. Lynch, you _know_ you're all we've got." She flicked a finger upward. "Make you a deal. I won't make fun of your body hair if you promise not to suck in your gut. Guys look ridiculous when they do that."

His face turned solemn. He unbuckled the holster and laid it carefully on the floor, then pulled the shirt out of his waistband and pulled it over the back of his head to keep it off his face as he pulled it down his arms and tossed it into the tub.

"Oh. My. God."

She spared hardly a glance at his chest hair, which was no thicker than the stuff on his arms and would hide nothing that was underneath when it wasn't matted with blood. And what was underneath …

The scars on his face were nothing. His left side was spider webbed with jagged slash marks, concentrated mostly between his nipple and waistline, but reaching as high as his collarbone and God knew how far down. In addition to that evidence of the disaster that had taken his eye, his body was peppered with smaller marks; it didn't look like a square foot of his skin had been spared some rude intrusion.

The final surprise was how _chiseled_ he was under that abused hide. Not power lifter bulgy, nothing like that; more like a Greek statue, super fit and toned. _Built for performance, not for show. _He even had money maker lines running from his hips down into his pants. A guy her age built like this would be mad hot; on _him_, it looked kind of scary. It occurred to her that demons were usually drawn corded with muscle like this.

"Penny for your thoughts."

"Keep it. You look like you spent forty years in Hell, and probably took it over." She wet a wad of paper towels and started scrubbing his chest.

"Not quite, but in the top three. Uh, I can do that."

"No. You'll start bleeding again. Keep still, and give it a chance to close. I'll get you clean and patched up." She tossed the soiled towels in the waste can under the tub and pulled more from the dispenser. She worked her way down his front, scrubbing the center hard to loosen up the crud matting his chest, trying not to wonder whose it was or how he'd got it all over him. Several towel changes later, she was below his sternum, and the blood was fresher – his, she was sure. The shirt material must have wicked it from the cut all across his abdomen. She took it easy, using gentle strokes, looking for the wound.

"You know," he said, "I'd be lying if I said I wasn't enjoying this."

She paused with a handful of wet paper pressed to his bare belly, then realized he was teasing her again. She grinned up at him. "And I'd know you were lying, too. This is as far as I go. Below the belt, you're on your own." Second startling thought: _I'm enjoying this too. I'm … getting some weird satisfaction from tending to him. I'm not crushing or anything; the idea of making out with him is ridiculous. So what is it?_

"I've got a question," she said.

"Oh?"

"Did you really expect me to look like a pug?"

He smiled. "No. Quite the opposite. I'd have been disappointed if the face hadn't matched that angel's voice." He looked down at her. "That wasn't a come on. Did any boy telling you he liked your butt ever make you blush like that?"

"I was just thinking… I'm glad my boyfriend doesn't know how to sweet-talk like that. I'm having a hard enough time staying a virgin as it is." She grinned up at him. "Oh, _now_ who's blushing?"

She decided to change the subject. "I've got this weird little computer in the back of my mind that works on stuff that I notice but don't really give much attention. Then five minutes or a month later, it sends me this report from left field. Sometimes it even wakes me up." The circular motions she was making under his navel slowed. "The guy who had Julie. Once she got away, why didn't you just shoot him?"

"I was out of ammo by the time I came down here. You don't suppose they just let me walk into the control room and start pushing buttons, did you?"

She looked at the blood on him, and what Grunge had said. _He came down here with an empty pistol, knowing there'd be guards. He took on something like a dozen armed men with his bare hands, and sent them running. And I came to lend him a hand. Joke._

Her hand felt a little trembly as she touched a spot on his lower abdomen. "Is this it?" It was a row of three cuts on his right side, level with his navel, maybe three inches wide in all. The left and right ones were longer but seemed shallower; the middle one was gaping. He shrugged, and she watched it seep blood, painting the skin below. She wiped at it. "I don't know if a bandage will do any good. This needs stitches."

"I'm sure there's a needle in that kit. You know how to sew?"

"I sew pants cuffs, not living flesh."

"It's just a fine grade of leather, Roxy. Open the kit. Let's see what we've got to work with."

The kit had all kinds of stuff in it, even tiny syringes already loaded with drugs; she only recognized about half the contents. Mr. Lynch looked it over. "That squib bulb is astringent powder. Squirt it on the wound. Then find a small packet with needle and thread."

The powder made a mess of him again. She wet another towel and cleaned off the excess. "How did some bozo get close enough to stick you with a knife?"

"I was a little busy. Half a second of precognition is a dandy tool when you've only got one opponent, but when they're coming at you from three directions, sometimes you run out of ways to dodge. Besides, he wasn't that close. Seems we've got more than one martial arts nut around here. Ever hear of shuriken?"

"Jeez." She found a small packet and opened it, withdrawing a large curved needle and about twelve inches of thread. She stared at it, and then at the wound, finally up at his face. He stood waiting, almost relaxed. "If I'm hurting you, tell me."

"If I did, what would you do different? Close stitches, Roxy; six or eight. Don't hurry." He carefully placed his hands on his head.

He was completely still and silent, not even breathing, as she pierced the injured flesh and drew the thread through. "I'm almost afraid to ask. How did you know about all this? What's your connection with these people?" She stared at his tortured body. "And what do you _do_ for a living?"

He stared straight ahead. "I work for the people who built this place. That's how I knew about it, and how I found out Bobby was here. This is just one of a _lot _of things they're into. They solve problems that involve national security. Some of their solutions are … extreme. Implementing extreme solutions is what I do for a living."

"I hope it pays."

"Better than you'd believe."

She was half done, and he hadn't seemed to notice. He went on. "They're not evil, not all of them anyway. They set out to do good, and they do, a lot. But they've gotten used to doing what they want, with no one to answer to. It makes you … lose your perspective."

She was only half listening as she focused on her task. She said absently, "This is gonna leave a scar." She had to stop work because he suddenly wouldn't hold still; she realized he was laughing, and woke to what she'd said just in time to join him.

"I suppose I look like ten miles of bad road."

She pulled out a gauze pad and a roll of adhesive tape. "Yes and no. Your hide is a jigsaw puzzle. But I go to the beach a lot, and I don't see many guys half your age looking this buff. How do you do it?"

"Ah, swimming. Running and hiking. Climbing, all sorts."

"'X-treme' stuff, huh?" She taped a pad over all three cuts.

"Very. I'm usually carrying a gun."

"Oh."

He touched the dressing. "Nice work. Much better than I do for myself. Thank you."

"I'll do what I can with that shirt and hang it up to dry. You can mop without it, right?"

"Yes. I'll remember to give a shout when I come back." He dropped the mop in the bucket and wheeled it away.

She watched him until he was out of sight, noting that his back was as well-muscled as his front, and peppered with scars as well. _I'm feeling something for him. It's not lust; the idea of him touching me like that makes my skin crawl. But I don't think he'd ever try._ He was exerting a pull on her that she couldn't deny, though: the closer she was to him, the better she liked it. She listened for the slap of the mop as she worked on his shirt; she was sure that if she couldn't at least hear him nearby, she'd start feeling antsy and want to look for him.

_You're running on instinct, girlfriend. You've had a rough week, filled with stuff you can't figure out, and scared numb for most of it. Along comes a big strong male to protect you. That's where the urge to stick close comes from; that's why you ran up the hallway when you heard gunfire. You were scared, so you went to find him, even though you were running towards the shots. Because you felt safer with him than anywhere else._

She shook her head. _I've gone Cave Girl. I'm dressing his wounds, bathing him and washing his clothes by hand. _She imagined them both in Flintstones outfits, and him bringing her a pair of rabbits to skin and cook over the fire. She couldn't help giggling.

"What's so funny?" His voice echoed from somewhere else in the room.

"Oh. Well, sometimes I think about this situation, and I get kind of hysterical." She rinsed out the shirt and hung it over the edge of the tub. Then she rinsed her hair one more time, finished her cuffs, and went looking for him. He had his back to her, mopping the floor in front of the entrance doors. She paused, watching him work, admiring the play of his muscles and his tireless rhythm. _You're feeling possessive,_ she thought wonderingly. _Over some tough old wardog who never had time for his own kid. You've known him for an hour maybe, and somehow, he belongs to you._

"I'm ready to go, I think," she said. He set the mop in the bucket and turned to look at her. "Your shirt should dry fast. It's synthetic." There didn't seem to be anything else to say, so she stepped past. "I'll be back." At the door, she turned. "You'll be here when we get back, right? Not going off somewhere by yourself?"

"No. I'll be waiting right here."

"Good." She turned away.

"Hey."

She turned back. He looked at her, ill at ease. "You know you can't go back home. You can't let them catch you again. When we leave the complex, we'll be scattering to the four winds. I'd like you to come with me. All of you," he amended, mistaking her look no doubt. "Your friends, I mean. And I'd take it as a personal favor … if you could convince Bobby to come along."

She was shocked. "What did you _say_ to each other?"

His mouth twisted. "Let's just say it didn't go the way I imagined."

She figured Bobby was having a hard time handling the changes, but the thought that he might refuse to go with Mr. Lynch hadn't occurred. Until he'd invited her, it hadn't occurred to _her _not to go with him. "I have to talk it over with them. But as far as I'm concerned, if we're on the run anyway, we might as well run in your direction. But you have to do something for me."

"Name it."

"Stop calling me Spaulding. It makes me feel like I'm in the principal's office. I'm Roxy or Roxanne to my friends."

The corners of his eyes crinkled. The dead one didn't look so horrible anymore; she wondered if he ever wore a patch over it. _I bet he'd look good in it._ "Roxanne it is then. Hurry back. We have some time, but I don't know how much. And there's still a lot to do before we leave."

"Right." She pushed open the doors and nearly struck her sister.

Kat's face settled into a stern expression that vanished as soon as she looked past her and saw Mr. Lynch in the hall behind her. It was almost funny, watching her eyes widen and her pupils dilate at the sight of him, shirtless and leaning on a mop. At least, until she realized there was something besides shock on her sister's face.

Mr. Lynch turned quickly, almost as if he was embarrassed, and pushed the mop and bucket towards the sink. "Looks like I got done just in time."

She stepped past and into the corridor. "Time to round up the others." She hoped she wasn't going to hear a lecture _all_ the way down the hall. In the months since they'd discovered each other, Kat had taken the big-sister role to heart, and it had only gotten worse since she'd become the _big_ sister. She took three steps before she realized Kat hadn't turned to follow.

Her sister was standing with her arms on the doors, holding them open, staring into the locker room after Mr. Lynch.

_Gawd. She feels it too._ "Kat, he could probably use some help." _By the time I'm back, she'll forget about jumping on my case, I bet._ "I'll be right back with the others, okay?"

"Okay." Without looking back, Kat passed through the doors and disappeared inside.

Long before she rounded the bend that led to the cells, she could hear the voices of her classmates, sounding rather like a flock of geese. Julie's voice, breathless and high-pitched, rose above the rest. "There's a big shower room _full _of dead bodies, stacked like cordwood. I threw up right on the floor. Then I heard feet clomping down the stairs, and ended up running back through the locker room with three Rambos hot after me. One of them tackled me in the corridor and put my lights out. When I wake up, I'm _draped_ across this big guy, and they're shooting at the Man.

"It was unbelievable. One of them is shooting at him with a rifle from maybe twenty feet away, pop-pop-pop-pop-pop, and he's turning this way and that as he walks up to him like it's nothing, like he _knew_ where the bullet would go before the guy pulled the trigger. Then he slaps the rifle out of his hand as if it's just something in his way … and he just _breaks_ him like cheap furniture. Then Rox comes up the hall, all covered in blood like that scene in _Carrie_, and acting like she's gone postal. She tells the guy with the gun to my head that she's going to bust him up, and all of a sudden it's like something _huge _came up behind him and picked him up right off his feet. I ran down the hall a few steps and looked back, and the guy was laying there, looking like someone hit him in the head with a _sledgehammer_."

_She's had time to tell that story a dozen times while I've been gone, and I'll bet it gets better each time. Way to keep the troops calm, Julie._

When she rounded the bend, what she saw made her think of a fire drill, only without teachers to herd kids towards the door; everyone was milling around and talking, and some of them were sounding a little panicky.

"Hey," she said, then again, louder. "Hey!" She waved her arm, as if she were just so mousy she couldn't expect anyone to notice her, and let the crowd get a good look at her, clean and not very dangerous or psycho-looking. "Mr. Lynch said it's time to clean out the guardroom. Kat's in there with him, opening lockers." She dropped her sister's name to reassure the ones who were still suspicious; _no one_ would ever suspect Kat of being up to something. "Are we all here? Look around. Is anyone missing?"

"Just your pod, Rox," said one of the girls. "I haven't seen them since the shooting started."

"Kay. Just head down the hallway, then. You can't get lost. Hey, Julie," she called. "There's a first aid kit up there. You should do something about that cut, you're still bleeding. Must have been a _hard_ knock to the head." She watched that little seed take root, as kids looked from her to Julie, some of them regarding the girl with new eyes. As soon as they were all moving, she slipped into Bobby's cell.

Grunge was nowhere in sight, but Bobby and Sarah were still in the same positions, rocking gently in the twilight glow. She stepped inside just far enough to let the door shut behind her, feeling like she was invading their privacy. It was hard to believe she was looking at the same two people she'd been sharing classes with for months; Bobby was always so self-possessed, and she'd never seen Sarah so … unguarded. Compassionate. _First me, now him. And there were times I wondered if she really cared about any of us._ The Princess raised her head and looked at her, imploring.

"I thought he was dead," Bobby said, in a low voice with all the emotion washed out; his eyes were dry and dull. "All my life, I thought they were both dead. Now he just pops up out of nowhere and wants into my life. Where's he _been_? Why did they give me up? Why wasn't he here when it could have made a difference?" His face stayed blank; all the misery that went with the words was visible on Sarah's face instead.

She knelt in front of him and took his face in her hands, making him look up at her and stilling that scary rocking. "I don't have any answers, Bobby. You'll have to get them from him. I don't know what it was like for you. I didn't have a dad either, but I think it's different for girls, and I still had my mom. But I know one thing, sure as sunrise. You never needed him in your _life _like you do right now, and he's here for you. That's gotta count for something." She stroked his head. "He's waiting for us. There are more storm troopers on the way, I think. We've got to get out of here." She asked Sarah, "Where's Grunge?"

"He left. I'm not sure when."

_I can imagine who he went to see, probably as soon as I was out of sight._ She kept her expression neutral. "He's ahead of us then. We're the last." She stood. "Come on."

By the time they emerged, the hallway was empty, although they could still hear their classmates' voices, a sound like water rushing over rocks as it echoed down the hall. "It's not far. A hundred yards, maybe a little more. They must be there, about." She looked down at the floor as they rounded the bend and began the gentle ascent to the double doors. Mr. Lynch's mop job hadn't extended this far, of course; the dark red drag marks still led up the hall. She'd been in too much of a hurry to get away from Kat to examine how well he'd cleaned up the butcher shop floor in front of the guardroom; she just hoped he'd done a good job.

A crowd was gathered in front of the entrance to the guardroom. The double doors were off their hinges, resting against the wall about where the big man had been lying. She could see the room, filled past capacity with kids rummaging through lockers; the ones out here were waiting their turn, apparently. She could just make out the shower room opening; a bank of lockers had been pulled across it, blocking sight and entry. _Mr. Lynch has been keeping her busy; I hope. She didn't need to go in there._

"Keep it neat," she heard Mr. Lynch say from the next row over. "Clothes, cash, keys. Or anything else that you can think of a use for. No guns. No IDs. No credit cards. Try to pick out clothes that fit, and leave the bigger stuff for the bigger kids."

Some of the loiterers at the door seemed in no hurry to go in; Julie was among them. She grabbed the girl's hand. "Come _on_. The only way out is through this room." She pulled her down the crowded aisle between the lockers. Julie shied at the blocked shower entrance. Roxanne pointed towards the utility area. "Soap and water and bandages are _that_ way. Then get something warm to wear, if there's anything left." She left to follow her own advice.

The big lockers' double doors had all been opened by pulling the padlocks off, hasp and all, and now most of them stood with doors ajar. Some of them were crowded with stuff; others were nearly empty. She supposed the full ones belonged to the men who'd been on duty when Mr. Lynch had invaded the complex.

She rooted through the lockers along the main aisle. She didn't expect to find much, since half the kids in school had already been through them, but she could hope to find a coat that was too small to fit anyone but her, or something no one else thought was important. Some of the searchers had been less than neat; there were items on the floor, soaking up the dampness from the fresh-mopped concrete: wallets, paperbacks, ballpoints and notebooks, even jewelry, including a pair of earrings. _I never noticed any guards with pierced ears; they must not wear them on duty. Don't any of these chumps smoke? _She assumed the wallets on the floor had been ransacked and ignored them, searching through the storage spaces. _Aha_. She found a silver cigarette case containing three sticks, along with a fancy lighter; when she pocketed them, she felt something in the pocket already. She recognized it by touch as her fake ID._ Better and better._

The crowd thinned somewhat as foragers moved on to less picked-over lockers elsewhere. She was of two minds about that: she felt a need for company, but it was nice not having to worry about being stepped on in the jostling crowd. The place quieted down, and she heard several girls' voices from the next row over, the one with the utility area; one of them was Julie's.

"I don't see how I'm _ever_ going to get all these bits of glass off me."

"Same here. You'd think there'd at least be a brush in here somewhere. Kat busted you out, too?"

"I think Kat busted _everybody _out. The whole wall went down like a waterfall, chips of glass flying everywhere, and she was tossing coveralls through and sprinting off to the next one before the dust settled. She looked like she was getting off smashing them in. How did she _do_ that?"

"Dunno. The Man says we'll all be doing stuff like that soon." She heard locker doors opening and closing.

"That scares me. I don't like the look of the side effects. I don't want to wig out like those guys."

"Wig out?"

"You saw Kat when she was knocking holes in stuff. She looked like she'd like to knock the place flat if she had time. And then, when she wanted to go with The Man on his little recon mission, did you _see_ her? Hulk _smash_. And what about Roxy?"

"Julie, you sure you didn't just …"

"No. I know what I saw. Perky little Roxanne Spaulding came around that corner looking like she'd just killed somebody with her bare hands, and she was ready to do it again. The guy holding me was_ scared _of them; his palm was dripping sweat on my shoulder. He was bigger than both of them put together, and he was the only one with a loaded gun, _and_ he had a hostage. And the two of them moved on him like a team, like they'd _trained_ to do it. Like he didn't have a chance, and the only one who didn't know it was me."

"Julie's on to something. Have you _seen _them together? Roxy and Kat _don't_ act like they just met him. And the way they _hover_ around him gives me goosebumps."

"_Lindsey._ You're _kidding_. _Ewww_."

"Not like _that_. It's like … well, I got this crazy idea the two of them have been here undercover, waiting for him to show up so they could make their move."

"So you think they _planned_ all this? Together?"

"All I know is, he got them out first, and they've been working together ever since. Kat opened all the cells and the lockers, and now she's upstairs playing traffic cop. Roxy went _hunting_ with him, for God's sake. I heard they each had her own cell. Maybe the people keeping us prisoner knew something about them we don't."

She was flabbergasted. The whole conversation was repellently crazy, but she couldn't stop listening. She thought of making her presence known, and letting them know she heard them, but she was too embarrassed. She wasn't the only one listening, either; the girls' voices seemed to be traveling all over the guardroom. The rest of the room was getting quieter and quieter.

Finally, one of the guys halfway down her row spoke. It was Leon, a big black guy with blond dreads and the most _arresting_ gold eyes; she'd talked with him before, and he was okay for a jock. He directed his voice over the lockers. "Hey, you girls wanna gossip, you should keep it down. Voices bounce off all these hard surfaces." He looked at her. "Rox and Kat could hear you from _anyplace_ in here, if it's quiet."

"Well, excuse _me_." But the girls lowered their voices to a murmur. The boy looked at her and shook his head as he left.

One open locker caught her eye and held it. Most of the wardrobes had stuff taped to the insides of the doors: calendars and sports schedules, pinup girls and news clippings, photos of all kinds of stuff from girlfriends to boats. This one had a top-to-bottom montage of family photos: a woman her mom's age and a little girl of eight or ten. The pictures showed them at birthday parties, on vacation, kicking it in the back yard. The man must have taken them all, because he wasn't in any of them, just the wife and daughter.

She wondered if the little girl's dad was lying unconscious upstairs or tossed like rubbish into the shower at the end of the hall. She wondered if she'd ever seen him or spoken to him.

"Think about the cell, Roxanne." Mr. Lynch's voice behind her was quiet but hard as stone. "_Somebody_ brought you down here, helpless and unconscious. They stripped you, locked that slave collar on you, dumped you on your mattress, and turned out the lights. Every mealtime, they were on the other side of that slot in the wall, bringing a tray of food laced with hallucinogens. They listened to you plead for the sound of another voice as they shoved it through into the dark. It was him, just as likely as anyone else. If not, he still _knew_ what was being done to you, and he would have killed me to keep you here."

"The cell is still plenty fresh in my memory, Mr. Lynch," she said, staring at the pictures. "I'm not standing here feeling sorry for him. I'm wondering what sort of story he told himself, to be able to put in a day's work here, and then go home and tuck his little girl into bed and kiss her good night."

Five heartbeats later, he said, "Speaking as one of those people … the number of stories is limitless."

It was completely silent now. A quick glance told her that the two of them were alone in the row. "Where'd everybody go?"

"I make them nervous, I think. They sort of migrated to the other side. We have this half of the place to ourselves."

"How did you know I tried to talk to them? The ones who fed me."

"You're a teenage girl. Of _course_ you were looking for someone to talk to."

"Not funny, Man in Black. Not funny at all."

"Sorry."

"S'alright. How'd your shirt come out?"

"Fine, thanks. Caitlin wrung it dry for me."

_Of course she did. Anything to help. Bet she'd cook your rabbits too._

"Something funny?"

"No. I don't think you'll have any trouble getting us to come with you, is all. Have you seen Grunge? Eddie, I mean."

"Eddie Grunge? Doesn't ring a bell."

"You stood on his neck."

"Oh. 'Chang, P.' He came through earlier, seems to be looking for someone. You?"

She forced her jaw to relax. "Maybe."

"Why's he Eddie, or Grunge? What's the 'P' stand for?"

She felt the corner of her mouth lift. "If I told you, and you called him by it, you'd have to stand on his neck again." _Right now, I wouldn't mind seeing that._

"Save it for when you're _really_ mad at him, then."

She turned, finally, a question on her lips: _how did you know I was mad at him?_ It vanished when she saw the camouflage jacket in his hands.

"Too big for you, of course," he said. "But you're not going to find anything that fits. The other clean one _might_ fit your sister."

She looked from the jacket to him. "You _didn't_."

"Of course I did. Before I put _any_ of them in there, I took whatever we might use, including clothing, if it wasn't too messy. Roxanne, it's twenty degrees up there, and dropping fast. There aren't enough warm clothes to go around."

"Thanks. Really. Give it to someone else. I'll find something." She was glad he didn't remind her that whatever she found was just as likely to belong to a corpse in the shower room; he just nodded and turned away.

Presently she found a jacket that had no doubt been passed over by many earlier foragers. It was a black leather piece, sort of punky in style, with lots of buckles and snaps and wide lapels that looked wicked when she turned them up; it looked totally out of place in a government agent's locker. Leather jackets usually weren't warm, but she noticed this one had a zip-out lining that made it serviceable in cool weather. It seemed way too small for one of the guards, but it looked a perfect size to go over her coveralls. She fell in love with it as soon as she saw it.

She worked her way through the lockers on the other side of the aisle. With Mr. Lynch gone, kids had begun drifting back into the row, searching. She noticed that none of them actually joined her, nor spoke to her; there were never fewer than two lockers between her and anyone else, even a kid she'd played cards with that last night. She wished she'd asked Mr. Lynch if Kat was still upstairs; or that she'd stayed with Bobby and Sarah, instead of taking off with Julie; right now, even Grunge would be a welcome sight. Presently she decided to move on. In her present dark mood, she thought the first aid kit might come in handy, and decided to fetch it.

Mr. Lynch had been mistaken; this row hadn't been deserted. Julie and four other girls were sitting on the bench or facing the lockers as she came around. They all stared silently at her as she headed for the utility station. _Did they hear me with him?_

She kept her voice casual. "Hey, guys. What are you finding?" She took down the first aid kit. "Nobody got a coat yet, huh?" She opened the locker nearest her. "I think most of the troops are upstairs already." With her face in a locker, she said, "I'm glad to see you cleaned up, Julie. People see you all bloodied up, it makes their imaginations run wild, you know? We don't need any stampedes around here." The rest of the row was silent; she might have had the place to herself. "We're in a very bad place right now. We should all be thinking about getting out, and worry about all the other crap later."

She closed the locker doors. Julie was sitting alone on the bench, looking scared.

"Where'd everybody go? Never mind, stupid question. Why are you still here?"

"They really kept you in the dark the whole time? And drugged you?"

She nodded. "And other things. If you're wondering why I'm acting strange, you don't need to look past that. Those rooms are meant for solitary confinement, but we started changing faster than they expected. They aren't just holding pens; they're brainwashing chambers. Eventually, we were _all_ going to end up in one alone. _That's _when the fun and games begin."

"What did they …" The question trailed off. _Not sure you want to know?_

She touched a hand to her neck, and then looked down at her hands: just two of them, and right where she expected them. "Doesn't bear thinking about." She looked at the other girl. "But if Mr. Lynch had gotten _you_ out of one after four days, you'd worship him on your knees." Something that had been tickling at the back of her mind came clear, and the shock of it made her sit heavily on the bench. "Ah. God."

"What?"

"He said they'd expected to shove three to five of us alone into those rooms every week, and let us out after we'd … become the way they wanted us. _Why forty cells?_ I just did the math, and it sank in." She took a deep breath and let it out. "I was losing my mind after four days; I think I'd have had sex with somebody to be let out. Seriously. I remember thinking that I wouldn't remember my own name after a month." She felt her nose clog again, and sniffed it back. "They were going to keep us in there for _eight weeks_. I wouldn't have been bothering with the toilet by then. I see now why they soundproofed the cells. I'd have screamed myself hoarse somewhere along the way, I know it."

Julie slid closer and put an arm around her waist. "God. And I thought I had it rough, waking up naked between Keeley and Kara."

She smiled. The Schaffer twins had an uncanny resemblance to Alicia Keys and were totally vain about it; also, they were _not_ morning people. "What was _that_ like?"

"Well … I can tell them apart now." When they stopped giggling, the girl went on, "Awkward at first. It wasn't like sharing a locker room. You _couldn't_ look away; all those damn reflections. And you couldn't cover up. Before long, we quit trying, and a while later, we realized we weren't noticing. Must've been harder for the boys; they're _so _hung up about their packages." They shared another giggle. "The worst part was using the toilet in front of each other, and not being able to take a shower."

"Whew. Hadn't thought of that. We must all stink so bad, we don't notice anybody else."

"Uh huh." The girl's voice became thoughtful. "Sharing one dinky mattress was a challenge. We tried sleeping in shifts, then said to hell with it and racked out sideways with our legs on the floor. The 'Oreo' jokes were funny for as long as it took us to fall asleep, about ten seconds. Next morning, if 'morning' it was, I woke up and we were all tangled together, snug as puppies in a box. And the only reason I was uncomfortable was cuz Keeley had her knee on my bladder." Her voice dropped. "Word is, one of those rooms turned into a girl party."

"I _so _don't want to know. Gross."

"Enough said. Anyway, they weren't bad company. It really wasn't that rough. We were scared, and we spent a lot of time asking each other why this was happening, and what they were going to do with us; the condition we woke up in wasn't reassuring, you know? But it was better than having a room to yourself, sounds like. Uh, Rox … what did they do to Kat?"

She shook her head slightly. "Don't know. We haven't talked." _But five days in a room full of mirrors is probably damn scary when you're all alone and the reflections don't look like you._

"Sarah's been sticking to Bobby like glue since they came in here; boy, hasn't _that _been grist for the mill. Rumor has it they came out of the same cell."

"Huh. Rumor's wrong. Everybody in our pod had their own. They're just a little weirded out, like all us solitaries."

"Eddie doesn't seem any different."

"You've seen him? Where is he?"

"Upstairs or outside, I don't know which. He breezed through here without opening a locker, just talked to a few people on the way to the stairs."

_I'm not following him around. He just keeps ending up ahead of me wherever I go._ She stood up, and Julie's arm slipped off her. "Thanks for the shoulder, Julie. You're okay."

"Yeah, if I could just keep my big mouth shut. My last words on earth'll probably be gossip."

"I think I'm done down here; most everybody else is gone. We need to keep moving. Which way to the stairs?"

"Opposite corner of the room. I'm gonna stay down here and look for a jacket."

She found a broad set of stairs leading up; she climbed for about thirty feet until they ended in a small building on the surface. Windows on three walls looked out on a large blacktop parking lot, brightly lighted and surrounded by a high fence. It looked to have been plowed recently: the perimeter was banked high with the scrapings. She could hear the low sound of running engines, and muffled voices; several schoolmates were visible through the windows, moving between the parked cars, their breath making clouds that hung in the cold still air.

She went through the only door into an even smaller room. Although a heater was glowing overhead, the temperature was much cooler here, a preview of what was on the other side of the second door. _Well, it is March in Minnesota. It's just that the last time I was outside, the snow was something new, a thin blanket on the fallen leaves, not standing in piles all over. It seems like we've been down there forever._

Cold air and a dusting of snow swept in as she opened the door, shrinking the skin on her face as it touched her. But the coveralls did a good job of holding in her body heat, and the jacket was just as warm as she'd hoped. _Wish I'd found some gloves, though._

Over the engines and the squeal of starters and the creak and thud of doors opening and closing, Mr. Lynch's voice rose. "If you find a car to match your key, turn it on and check the gas before you start it. If the tank's less than half full, don't bother, just turn on the flashers. If it's got gas but won't start, pop the hood." He appeared from between two cars, saw her, and moved her way.

"Very fashionable." He was looking at her jacket. "Doesn't look very warm, though."

"I'm fine." _He _wasn't wearing a coat, she noticed; the black shirt was a heavy polo, but it was still just a shirt._ He must be freezing._ "I presume you found the other coats a good home."

He ignored the remark. "Did you find any car keys?"

"No." She remembered the first aid kit, left behind on the bench downstairs. "Where are the others?"

He pointed towards a utility building at one corner of the lot. "Bobby and Sarah went looking for jumper cables and some way to siphon gas. Caitlin's making sure everybody follows my instructions about the cars. Also, she's going through them, looking for anything we might use."

"What about Eddie?"

Mr. Lynch waved an arm towards a mass of students and parked cars. "Around there somewhere." Before she could start that way, he said, "I've got a job for you, if you don't mind."

"What?"

He looked at the woods beyond the fence. "My car's in the visitors' lot, about a mile away. There's something in it I need to bring back here right away. Can you stand guard at the driveway, and make sure no one leaves before I get back?"

Resigned, she said, "Sure."

He turned and headed for the driveway and the only gap in the fence, about a hundred yards away. "Hey," she said. "You're not driving?"

He shook his head. "There's no connecting road between lots. It'd take me miles by car. I'm walking."

She followed him across the lot. "It's kind of cold out, did you notice? I suppose there's no trail between the lots either."

"Of course there is. The one _they_ used." He looked through the fence at the snowy forest landscape. "Shouldn't take too long; twenty minutes maybe."

She looked at the opening. "There's a rolling gate. You don't need a guard. Just shut it."

He shook his head. "Right now, half these kids will bolt in a blind panic if they see this gate roll shut. Just stand at the opening, Roxanne. Make sure no one tries to leave before I see them." He went through the opening and turned into the woods. The parking lot lights reflected off the snow, which brightened the landscape and contrasted nicely with his black clothing, so she could see him walking through the trees for a couple of minutes before the darkness and the trees swallowed him.

Then, alone again, she stood guard, hands inside her pockets, collar turned up, stamping in the cold. A few minutes later, a car rolled up to the gate, looking like it wasn't going to stop. She waved, and the car put on its brakes, sliding slightly.

There were two in the car: a girl and a boy. The boy, Mike something-or-other, was behind the wheel, staring down the road with way too much white showing in his eyes. The girl was Lindsey Summers, one of the gossips from the locker room downstairs, and her eyes widened at the sight of Roxanne blocking the road. Neither of them had coats. She looked through the window to read the gas gauge: less than a quarter tank. "Did you find the keys for this heap downstairs, or did it have its flashers on?"

The boy shrugged. "It started."

"It'll run out of gas before you find a station. You'll freeze to death. Wait for Mr. Lynch. He's got a plan."

"We've got to get out of here before any more come."

The girl tugged on his sleeve, trying to get his attention.

"We've got to keep from getting caught again, too. Do you have any money? A safe place to go?"

"We'll figure something out." He reached for the shift lever; the girl put her hand on his forearm. He turned to her irritably. "What?"

Roxy injected a stern note into her voice, trying to sound authoritative. "You're _not_ driving this deathtrap out of here. Take it back where you got it and turn the flashers on. Wait for Mr. Lynch. Don't leave until he comes back."

His voice rose. "We're not gonna wait to be rounded up again. Who put _you _in charge, anyway?"

"_Mike!_" The girl jerked on his arm. "_No! _Don't_ push_ her."

Softly, she said, "Nobody's gonna get hurt here, Lindsey. But if you leave now, you'll get caught or die. Mr. Lynch can help us; he knows what he's doing. We'd be in those cells until our minds rotted if he hadn't taken a hand. Show a little faith."

"Go back, Mike. It'll be okay."

The boy reluctantly put the car into reverse.

"Lindsey."

The girl stared at her with frightened eyes.

"A week or a month from now, when you find out you can talk to dogs or put ice in your drink without going to the fridge… or make blood shoot out people's ears when they point guns at you… I hope you're not as hard on yourself as you've been on me." _Oh, my, didn't that sound weak and self-pitying. Sniff back a tear, why don't you. _

She turned her back, looking towards the woods, and listened to the car back and turn, headed back to the lot. _Wish I had a watch. How long has he been gone? And where's the rest of my pod? It didn't take us long to scatter. Doesn't _anybody _wonder where I am?_

_I don't think I'll want to be alone ever again._

She jammed her hands into her jacket pockets and hugged herself, and she felt the metal case in her coveralls underneath. _How could I have forgotten about those? _Seconds later, she was lighting up. The cigarette was unfiltered, and the tobacco was rich and almost dizzyingly strong; she took tiny drags mixed with a lot of cold air, and was still buzzing by the time she was halfway through it. She stubbed it and put it back in the case. _A lot different from the chopped hay I'm used to; I'll bet they're expensive._

She tried to imagine her life from this moment forward: constantly on the move, staying at fleabag hotels and homeless shelters, always looking over her shoulder. She wondered what she and the others might have to do to eat. She shivered.

Another car approached, cruising slowly towards her this time. She peered at the figures behind the windshield: another twosome, looked like another boy and girl. She briefly wondered if all the escapees might pair off. Would there be enough cars?

As it got closer, she could make out the occupants: Barry driving, with Jen warming the passenger-side armrest. A week before, she would have been surprised to see them sharing a table at lunch.

Barry rolled down the window as the car eased to a stop beside her; he rested an elbow on the sill. The heat escaping through the opening bathed her face. "Hey, Rox. Wait in the car? This heater's, like, nuclear powered."

She'd have liked nothing better, but she was afraid she'd fall asleep in the back of a warm car. "Thanks. Better not. So you're not trying to leave?"

"Nope. We wait for Mr. Lynch. And block the exit, not that it really matters. Word travels fast. I doubt anybody else is going to try the gate. Not with the Man's little pit bull blocking the way." He looked up at her. "Their words, not mine. Leon told me some things. You've still got friends here, Rox. They're just a little scared of anything strange right now, you know?" She didn't remember him having such compelling eyes. "Whatever happened to you in that cell marked you, but it didn't change you. Neither did your gift, whatever it is." He grinned. "You're still everybody's bratty kid sister. Nobody could be scared of you for long."

The boy's words warmed her better than any car heater. "Puh. I never thought you noticed me."

"I wasn't in your circle of friends. But I know everybody; a hundred people aren't that many to keep track of. Besides… I think seeing people is _my_ gift." His eyes got a faraway look. "It started a couple of weeks ago, and it keeps getting stronger. I was getting creepy vibes off all the guards and staff, like they were aliens in rubber masks. At first, I thought I was getting goofy from the seclusion, until I woke up in a cell with two other guys. But everybody look different to me now. I can see things about them that I never did before, as if they were revealing some inner self to me. I'm sure I could look at a total stranger and tell if he's kind or spiteful or likes secrets." His eyes flicked towards the passenger seat, where Jen looked to be falling asleep. "Whether they're bullies or stingy or promiscuous. It's weird. I'm not sure what God wants me to do with it; I'll have to pray on it." He lifted a worn paperback Bible. "I'll take this as a sign. Mine's lost forever on Level One. But I found this one on the front seat of the car. It's dog-eared and highlighted and has notes in the margins. Somebody down there was looking hard for guidance. I hope he's still alive."

She rested her hand on Barry's forearm, and looked off into the woods. "Barry… what about _him_?"

He looked off into the woodsy dark as well. "He's dark and bright at the same time, like... a shining jewel under layers of soot. Or maybe one of those white dwarf stars that are hidden in clouds of dust. Part of the darkness is depth, like looking into a deep well. He's a very complicated man. And he's a weird talent, like us; I can tell. Right now, he's being eaten up by remorse. Is he really Bobby's dad?"

"Bobby only half believes it, but I think so."

"I haven't seen them together. I don't know if they fit."

"Fit?"

He gave her a head shrug. "I don't know how to explain it. Some people… fit together, like jigsaw pieces. A lot of them are pairing off in cars for the trip out of here. Some odd combinations, too; people who barely spoke in school. And almost all of them boy-girl."

She looked at Jen, apparently asleep against the window. "How'd you guys end up in the same car? Do you 'fit'?"

"Dunno. I can't see myself like that, not even in a mirror. I have to guess, like everybody else." He smiled and shrugged again. "We both want to go someplace warm. And we knew each other before we came here. Two years ago, Jen brought me to Jesus."

Without opening her eyes or moving, Jen said tiredly, "You _love_ the way their jaws drop when you tell that story. But you never finish it. I tossed my Bible in the trash two months later, and I never touched another one. I hope you didn't invite me along, thinking you were going to bring me back to the fold, Barry. As soon as you start preaching, I'm gonna get out and walk. I mean it."

"Jen, I've never done that. I'd be embarrassed to preach to you." He turned to Roxy. "I dated her to win a bet."

Jen's eyes slitted open.

Barry looked over the steering wheel into the road. "Everybody on the team threw in five bucks every week. One or the other of us had been in the pants of every cheerleader on the squad. Except for the captain, Jenny Grier, easily the hottest of the herd. The money was supposed to go to the first guy who tapped her. But nobody could even get a study date.

"One day I was watching her bounce around at practice and I saw this honking big crucifix fall out of her shirt. _Aha_, says I, while I watch her stuff it back inside, wishing I was the crucifix. We start talking religion, and I let her talk me into visiting her church on Sunday, thinking it might lead to something. It did, but not what I expected. I got baptized.

"Next day at practice, she comes up to me on the sidelines and starts talking to me, eyes shining and wearing a smile that lit up every male on the field; forty guys wished they were me right then. After she left, they surrounded me, and asked me if it was as good as it looked. I told them to mind their own business. The money was in my locker when I came in from practice. I gave it to the church."

Jen sat up. "I thought you were the only nice guy on the team."

"Sorry. Still want to ride with me?"

"More than ever. I was right."

"Roxanne," Mr. Lynch said, "I'm glad to see you with friends." He'd come up to the gate without anybody noticing. He was wearing a long heavy greatcoat; snow crusted the hem like fur. On his head was a fur hat with flip-down ear flaps.

"You look like a Russian border guard."

"And who knows more about keeping warm outside?" Over one shoulder, he was carrying a huge equipment duffel by a strap. He dropped it in the roadway and unzipped it. "My first customers."

The bag was full of money, packages of bills in paper bank wrappers. He pulled out several. "Here. Tens and twenties in used bills, non-sequential serial numbers." He brought them to the window. "Ten thousand each."

Barry looked aghast. "We don't need that. What did you do, rob a bank?"

"Worse. But not for this; it's mine. Come on, you can't steal _everything _you're going to need."

"Steal? What-"

"The plates." Mr. Lynch explained patiently. "You've got to change them as soon as possible. If you can, take them off a car just like this: color, make, model. Exchange them, don't just steal them; the owner's more likely to spot a missing plate than one that's been switched. Switch again after a couple hundred miles; the second time, you don't need to be so fussy. A couple hundred more, do it again. Now, take this." He pushed the money through the window, and Barry took it.

"Keep it close, but out of sight. Don't flash more than a couple hundred at a time, and don't make any extravagant purchases that someone might remember. Buy clothes, food, tools, and camping gear; you don't have ID to rent a room, and you should stay out of restaurants. Where are you headed?"

"Uh, nowhere, really. Someplace warm. South."

The man smiled. "From here, _every_ place is south and warmer. Ever been to Alabama?"

"Uh, no. We're both from Illinois."

"Good. Don't even drive through Illinois on your way to Alabama; don't go _anywhere _you've ever been, for a while. You can go east through the Upper Peninsula, then south through Michigan and Indiana, but I don't recommend it; the only way out of the Yoopee is by ferry or the Mackinaw Bridge, which they'll certainly be watching. Go west, then south, maybe through Iowa. Get used to never traveling the shortest distance between two points. Get there without delay, though, then take the plates off the car and ditch it." He took a small spiral notebook and a pen from inside his coat. He filled one page in a close hand, tore it out, and handed it over. "This man will help you, if he knows you come from me, and if you have a little cash. Don't call until you're in town, don't mention any names on the phone, and make sure you use _both_ of these words in a sentence before you talk business, or he won't be wherever he directs you. For two grand each, he'll provide you with decent ID; for a thousand more, he'll set you up with jobs and a safe place to live." He eyed Jen. "Maybe less, if you share a place."

Barry looked up at him. "You're a very unusual guardian angel, Mr. Lynch."

"Oh? How many have you met?"

"Heh. Point taken." He put the car in gear.

"One more thing." He looked grimly from Barry to Jen. "Being on the run is scary and hard. You're going to be tempted to end it by running to the news media. Don't. It would be Russian roulette. IO has too many of those people in its pocket. You'd probably just be exposing yourself needlessly. Believe it or not, the Internet is an even worse choice. Anonymity on the Web is a myth. IO has programs that monitor _all_ Web traffic, and they'll spot you trying to expose their activities. Long before you come to the attention of someone who matters and isn't on IO's payroll, you'll be back in your cages. If, by some miracle, you get the ear of someone who doesn't discount your crazy story, what can you prove?"

"We can bring them back here," Jen said.

"Can you? Do you know where you are?"

"Minnesota. Somewhere just east of Lake Gogebic," Barry said.

"Wrong. You were misled. You're almost two hundred miles from there, in the middle of a national wildlife refuge. No one ever visits here, because hunting is forbidden and there aren't any roads or trails. The only road is a service road for the rangers, and it's gated and locked at the highway." He pointed down the drive. "This one ends at that road, in the middle of the park. If they remove the gravel and plant a few bushes along the roadway, you'll never find it again. If they remove the fence and a couple of structures, you won't find it from the air, either. You'll have exposed yourself for nothing."

"What about a demonstration? Of our gifts, I mean?"

Mr. Lynch shook his head. "Son, do you have any _idea_ how ready people are to be afraid of something they can't explain?" When Barry frowned, he went on. "If you reveal your powers, you've taken away your chief use to these people, and made yourselves a supreme threat. The kid gloves will come off. IO has a propaganda campaign prepared that will make all of you look like terrorists, some rogue state's secret weapon. Think about the current climate of fear since Nine-Eleven. People will line up to turn you in."

Barry looked grim. "Okay, Mr. Lynch. We do it your way. How long do we hide?"

"Until I come for you. Or it's obvious to anyone that IO no longer has any power to harm you. You might be a grandparent by then."

"I hope that's a joke. But all right. Thanks for everything. Take good care of our little girl."

Mr. Lynch looked at her. "I don't know if she's going to come with me."

"_I _do. You fit." He rolled slowly away as another car eased up.

Keeley, Julie, and Kara, all in the front seat; no one was sitting in the back.

Julie looked up at her apprehensively. "This isn't what it looks like."

She felt the smile cracking her cheeks in the cold. "To me, it looks like you found somebody who's got your back. _Honestly_, Julie, you've _got_ to stop worrying about what other people think."

"The day she does that, _we'll_ start worrying." Kara was behind the wheel; she gripped it with both hands as she looked through the windshield. "What's he doing?"

"Playing Santa Claus with stacks of money. That duffel's full. Must be a million bucks in there."

"O-_kay. _But I was talking about _him_."

She looked down the road. The car with Barry and Jen was stopped about fifty yards down the road; Barry's brake lights were on. A head appeared in the back window. Even at this distance, she recognized Grunge.

_He's leaving with her. Without even saying goodbye. _

But the left rear door opened and he threw a leg out. The still cold air and the hard landscape let sounds travel much farther than usual; she could clearly hear the _snick_ of the door lock as it opened, the scrape of his shoe sole turning on the pavement as he got out, and the _clunk_ of the door as he shut it. She became aware that she'd taken several steps down the road; Mr. Lynch's instructions to the girls were a background mutter, barely heard, as all her attention focused on the scene ahead of her.

"Man, I can't _believe_ I forgot about you." Barry shook his head. "You were sleeping like the _dead_."

"Stamping around in the cold takes a lot out of you. I should have been looking for a coat or something, but I was afraid I'd miss you." He reached through the window, and he and Barry did that weird handclasp thing that wasn't a handshake. "If _you're _gonna stay awake, you better turn down the heater."

"Jen likes it hot. What can I do?"

"Turn it down as soon as she falls asleep, or make her keep you awake. On second thought, maybe you'll focus on the road better if she stays asleep." He walked around to the front of the car, headed for the passenger window. For a moment, she was sure he'd see her, standing in the road between the cars. But his eyes stayed on Jen as he rounded the front of the vehicle.

Jen rolled down the window and smiled up at him as he neared the passenger door. _He's going to kiss her goodbye. Of course he is. That's okay, as long as he's staying. I can handle that. As long as he doesn't give her tongue. I don't think I could watch that._ But looking away was impossible.

"You could come with us, if you want," Jen said, as he bent down.

"Thanks. But I've got a ride already, I think."

"You do," Barry said. "It'll wait, bro."

Grunge bent his face close to hers. But he didn't kiss her. "Gonna keep your hands off his wings and halo?"

"That's up to him. I might have to do _something_ to shut him up."

"Heh." He straightened as she put a hand over his where it rested on the doorsill.

"Hey," she said. "You know, I always wondered what you'd be like."

_Here it comes. God, he's going to kiss her after all._

"Now I'm never going to find out." She patted his hand. Barry said, "Go with God, Percival Edmund Chang."

"And _you_, Bartholomew Irwin Racer the Fourth."

"Oh, my God," Jen said. "I thought your parents _loved_ you guys."

The brake lights went out, and the car rolled away as the second vehicle with the Oreos rolled by. "See ya, Rox," Julie called. Grunge turned towards the approaching car and saw her. As it rolled past, he trudged towards her. He stopped two steps away, and they regarded each other in silence.

Finally, she said, "I didn't know you and Barry were friends." _I guess I don't know you as well as I think I do._

"Only, like, since our first day at school together. I hung out with him most of the time I wasn't with you guys."

"He doesn't seem like your type." _How many wrong assumptions have I made about him?_

He shrugged, "He wasn't in your circle of friends. But neither was I." _First time anyone's called me a snob. I'm a jealous, childish, moody bitch, and I don't know why he puts up with me. Why did I listen to those gossips?_

"Mr. Lynch wants to put us up."

"I know. Sounds good to me."

"Bobby doesn't want to go. Can you talk to him?"

He shook his head. "Worst thing you could do, if he already said he wasn't going. He's a rockhead."

"Well, what can we do?"

"If the rest of us decide to go, he'll tag along, even if he says he thinks it's a bad idea. Red's on board, right?"

"We haven't talked, but I'm sure she wants to go with him." _But I'm not sure exactly why, which kind of creeps me out._

"That leaves Sarah. Talk her into it, and he'll come along and think it's his idea. I think you should talk to her; you and her are the closest. I don't know why, but she and Kat are barely speaking since Kat started to get her gorgeous on. Maybe she's jealous."

_I don't think so, but it's probably something a guy wouldn't understand._

"Okay." She swallowed. Another car passed them by; she didn't even look to see who was inside. "I, uh, thought you and Jen…" Her voice trailed off.

His eyes widened. "Is _that_ what that snit was about?" He seemed so relieved, it was all the confirmation she needed. She'd been wrong, and put him through hell for nothing.

"I couldn't blame you if you were pissed at me for a month."

He took two steps forward and put his arms around her. "Rox. Don't you know by now? _Nobody_ can stay mad at you."

69


	3. Spreading Her Wings

March 2004  
La Jolla

"Roxanne. Good morning. For some reason, I didn't expect you to be the first one up."

"Yeah, well, maybe you don't know me as well as you think." The girl's tone was irritable, but not surly. _Some people wake up out of sorts, _Anna thought. _Perhaps she's a bad riser. Or perhaps it was the dreams._

"I think I hardly know you at all, but I'm eager to change that. Did you sleep okay?"

"No. Is there any coffee?"

"I can make some in less than three minutes." She set up the coffee maker. "I'm brewing this to Mr. Lynch's taste. If you prefer it another way, you'll have to tell me. Was there something wrong with the room?"

"Nothing you can do anything about. My bunkie snores." A half second later, she said, "Wait. Yes. When you take Kat shopping, buy her a teddy bear."

"What's that?"

Roxanne gave her a sharp look, and she knew she'd made another mistake. "A little plush toy. Pink. It's her favorite color. If it doesn't help her sleep better, maybe I can stuff it in her mouth."

_A hyperbole, surely._ In a low voice, she said, "If you're having trouble sleeping, perhaps we could get you something mild to take. Until you settle into new surroundings."

"No. No drugs. Nicotine's all the bad habit I need." The girl looked up at her. "Anna … you ever have bad dreams?"

"I never dream," she said. "How do you take your coffee?"

"I'll fix it myself."

"Tomorrow, maybe. Not today." She got a mug down. "Well?"

"Cream and sugar, lots."

"All I have is milk. Half-and-half is on my list. Would you like some breakfast? Choices are limited until I go shopping."

"I'm not hungry. Maybe later." Roxanne put an elbow on the table and rested her chin on the heel of her hand. "What about bad memories? Does anything bad come back to you in the dark?"

She assembled the flavorings in the mug and added coffee. "I have excellent recall, and my share of unpleasant memories. They come back to me, when something triggers them, or I need to remember." She set the mug down in front of the girl. "But no more often in the dark than in the day. They don't disturb my sleep."

Roxanne put her hands around the mug and stared down into it. "Anna? Are you Gen? Like Mr. Lynch? Or us?"

She shook her head. "No. Why would you think so?"

"Cuz you kind of remind me of _him_, the way you behave sometimes. It's a little spooky. Didn't it hurt when you stubbed that cig?"

She smiled. "I'd just got done washing dishes, and I didn't dry my hands before I went looking for the cigarette I was smelling. My palm was dripping wet."

"Oh."

"As weird as things have been for you lately, the wildest explanations must come to you for every little mystery."

Roxanne grunted.

_She's looking for a more conventional explanation for my strength and speed._ "It's a little early yet, but if we leave in the next ten minutes, the stores will just be opening when we get there."

The girl's eyes flicked all around the room, looking for something. "Just let me get my coffee down." She pressed her lips together, then said, "I'm down to my last three cigarettes."

Anna looked at the girl, who wouldn't meet her eye. "When did you buy them?"

"Day before yesterday. Usually a pack lasts me a week, but I've been smoking like a fiend since we left the Project. And even worse since we got here."

"What brand do you prefer?"

Roxanne looked up and met her eyes. "You'd _buy_ my smokes?"

"I don't approve of your habit, but quitting's up to you. Three days of forced abstinence won't break you of it. I don't see any reason to make you miserable for three days."

The girl relaxed. "Well, I'm not fussy, I guess, as long as it's filtered."

"Noted. We'll go when you're ready. I'll just leave a note and my cell number while you finish your coffee. Do you want to smoke before we get in the car?"

"I'm thinking that means I won't be smoking _in _the car?"

"It's a shared enclosed space just like the house, sweetheart."

"Kay. I can wait." She gulped the beverage down. "Let's go." A line appeared between her eyebrows. "Where's the uniform?"

"I expect to spend most of the day out of the house. The uniform attracts attention."

"I'm not dumping on you or anything… but your clothes look like your dad picked them out."

"Too modest, you think? I wouldn't want to draw attention."

"I guess they're all right then. I can't imagine anybody giving you a second glance."

Twenty minutes later, Roxanne said in hushed tones, "I've never been in a mall like this in my life. I've never heard of _any _of these stores. Everything costs a _fortune_."

"La Jolla's rather an upscale neighborhood. To blend in, you're going to have to dress like a rich kid, and I'm told this is where the ones your age shop."

"I've been buying my clothes in discount stores and second-hand shops all my life. You want me to buy clothes like a rich kid, I'm _ready_."

"There's more to it than buying without looking at the price tags." She glanced at the youngsters in the corridor. "Teenagers are herd animals. They won't accept you if you're not properly attired. Any clique you join will have a dress code: things that can't be worn, things that must. Some of the rules will be difficult for an outsider to spot right away. That's why we're only picking out a couple of outfits today, to give you a chance to acclimate before you fill your closet with clothes you won't be caught dead in a week from now. Plus some swimsuits and toiletries, of course."

"Did you bring enough money?" Roxanne dug into her coat pocket. "I've still got most of the ten grand Mr. Lynch gave me."

"Roxanne, _no_," she said quietly, laying a hand over the girl's arm. "Didn't he warn you about showing too much cash?"

"Well, sure, when we're on the run, and we have to worry about getting ripped off."

"It wasn't about getting robbed. It was about attracting notice. Flashing your roll is more dangerous here than on the road. Only the wrong sort of people carry large amounts of cash; you'd be sure to arouse suspicion."

"Well, how do you _pay _for stuff?"

"When people in this neighborhood shop, they use credit cards with five-figure limits." She produced a card. "Like this one."

"Ah."

"Also, that cash was intended to be runaway money. Now that you're here, Mr. Lynch may be expecting you to return it, rather than use it for a shopping spree." She gestured towards a shop three doors down. "Kids your age are coming out of that store with purchases. Let's see what they're buying."

Twenty minutes later, Roxy had selected two outfits that satisfied her and seemed appropriate. She eyed the intimates section of the sales floor. "Um, two changes?"

Anna, standing at the register, smiled at the anxious girl. "Get everything you need. If it doesn't show, it doesn't matter."

"Bitchin." Within ten minutes, she'd picked out an armload of colored lace and nylon to add to the pile on the counter.

"Swimsuits next. Get a couple."

The girl disappeared among the racks and came back with three string bikinis. She held up a white one with extra long strings and draped it across her housekeeper. "What do you think?"

"It's very pretty." Actually, she couldn't tell why the girl had selected it from a rack full of similar items, but Roxanne had strong fashion opinions, so Anna decided to defer to her taste until she had some reason not to.

"Well? Are you going to buy it?"

"For me, you mean? Where would I wear it?"

"Around the _pool_."

She raised her eyebrows. "That's no maid's uniform. My agreement with Mr. Lynch specifies that I dress professionally on the premises when I'm on the clock, which, basically, is whenever you kids are up. I don't have days off; technically, I'm off call four hours a night, but I'd never refuse to answer a call, so I'm sort of on duty twenty-four-seven." She smiled. "If I'm going to jump in the pool at two A.M., I might as well skinny-dip."

"Better not. Grunge is up at all hours." The smile faded, replaced by a more penetrating gaze. "The Man in Black didn't get _you_ with an ad in the paper."

She leveled a look at the girl. "Sweetheart, I don't want to have to lie to you, or tell you to mind your own business. There's a short list of things I'm _certain _Mr. Lynch doesn't want me to tell you about. How I came to be in his employ is right near the top of it." Then she reached for the brief garment. "On the other hand, you never know. Thank you, Roxanne. I'm sure I couldn't have found one I liked better. Jewelry next, I think."

"_Jewelry?_"

She nodded. "Of course. Every girl in this shop is wearing something on her neck or wrist or ears. You've got to blend in, right?"

They exited the clothing store and entered the corridor, bags in hand. A kiosk in the center of the corridor housed a small jewelry shop, with a number of teenagers looking over the display cases. Roxanne eyed the girls, studying their ornaments. "What are we going to get?"

Anna glanced up and down the corridor. "Earrings, for a start. Of the twenty-six girls in this hallway, all have at least one pair of earrings on. Twelve have at least two. Three have three; you'd be the fourth if you had something in each of your holes. So you need at least three pair, right?"

"I do if I don't want to lose the holes. It's been a week already."

"Lose them?"

"You know. Let them close up. I see you don't have any."

"No, never did."

"And… the navel's pierced, too. That's seven."

"Go for it, sweetheart."

The girl quickly selected three pairs of small gold circles, then stared longingly over a different pair in the case, long pendants with facets and an engraved pattern. She looked up to see Anna watching her.

"I think they'd look fabulous on you." Again, she didn't understand why the girl was attracted to one set over another that was similar in size and shape. "What's wrong?"

"They're too flashy. Back home, all my girlfriends would rave over them, but here, all they seem to wear is plain styles in precious metal." Roxanne chose a different pair, and the sales girl added them to the tray holding her other selections. "How about a watch? This one looks good. Digitals don't look popular." It was an analog timepiece with a slender gold band and two extra faces under the crystal.

"Not that one."

"Why?" Roxanne lowered her voice. "It looks just like the one the salesgirl's wearing."

"It's losing over a minute a day. That might be important someday." She picked another watch with a similar band, but with an LCD display that mimicked an analog face with hands. "This one is only a second off, and it adjusts itself periodically, just like cell phones do."

Without comment, Roxy had the salesgirl add it to the tray. Then she picked up a necklace, a fine chain with a simple silver crucifix an inch in length, and held the pendant to the hollow of her throat. "I love these. I had one I never took off, except in the shower. I woke up without it in the…" She glanced at her. "You know."

Anna nodded and picked out a similar item, slightly larger; she weighed it in her hand and deduced that it was hollow. "What about this one? Do you think it would be too showy?"

"No, it's _beautiful_. But it costs five times as much. That's not silver, it's _platinum_."

She dropped it in the tray. "I'll pay the difference if Mr. Lynch objects."

The girl's face clouded. "You're doing it again."

She raised an eyebrow.

"You're being nice to me again."

"Well, don't take it personally, Roxanne. I'm nice to _everybody_."

On the drive home, Anna's cell phone burred; it was Eddie. "_Everybody's up. Do we draw straws to see who's next, or what?_"

"Well, how about 'ladies first'? I know where the girls' shops are already."

Eddie's voice lowered. "_For Kat, too?_"

"Beg pardon?"

"_That's a guy's track suit she's wearing. We didn't find any girl clothes that fit. She wasn't happy about it._"

"Because of her height."

"_Among other things._"

"I see. Thanks, Eddie. We'll be home in eleven or twelve minutes. Do you want breakfast when I get home?"

"_Neh. We're making do with cereal, but supplies are running low. Just so you know, Kat eats like a horse._"

"Groceries right after clothes. Soon enough?"

"_Better feed Kat while you're out. Seriously._"

"Noted." She turned to Roxanne. "Where can I take Kat to buy clothes that fit?"

"Hm. There are 'big and tall' shops, but I don't know any names. I'd say check the phone book."

"Wouldn't Kat know?"

"Fraid not." The girl shook her head. "She's never had to shop for big clothes. She was almost our size when she came to the school, and she hasn't worn anything but school issue since she grew."

"Ah. Side effect?"

"Do you think? You ever hear of someone growing thirteen inches and packing on a hundred pounds in just six weeks?"

As they exited the car, Roxanne asked, "What time is it?"

"Ten eleven. Yellow pages or white?"

"Yellow, under 'clothing,' I guess. So, we've been gone an hour and eleven minutes?"

"An hour and twenty-one minutes. Why?"

"Just trying to figure how long it'll take you to shop with us. Looks like you'll be at it for another four hours."

"We'll see. It might take a while to find Kat a store, but I'm going to shop with both boys at once." As they passed the pool, she dipped a finger into the water. "Twenty-eight degrees warm enough, do you think?"

"Wait a minute. I thought you said shopping together would take longer."

They entered the house. "If Eddie's right, letting _them_ shop together might accelerate the process. We'll see."

A few minutes later, she called Kat into the kitchen and showed her a listing in the phone book. "Kat, have you ever heard of this place?"

Kat's face blanked. "We used to call it 'The Tentmaker's'."

"How uncharitable. The location looks good, at least; it's back at the mall. Let's give it a try. I promise we won't come back until we've found you two changes of clothes you like, plus swimsuits."

Twenty minutes later, Anna looked at the girl's face. "It's hopeless, isn't it?"

"Sorry." Kat was clearly embarrassed, by both the difficulty she was having finding her size and the items she was trying on. "I guess I shouldn't be so fussy."

"Kat, you are _not_ coming home in… clothes that look like your dad picked them out. We'll find a place that carries clothes for a girl your age _and_your stature. At least you know your bra and panty sizes. I was worried about explaining _that_ to the salesgirl." She walked to the sales desk. The store's only clerk was of average size and plainly didn't wear the items she sold; nevertheless, Anna leaned over the counter and said to her, "Help?"

"Not having much luck, huh? If I looked like that, I wouldn't shop for _underwear_ here. Have you tried The Runway yet?"

"No. We're new in town. That's a store for big girls?"

"It's a store for big girls like _her_. But the prices'll flatten you."

"Give me the address?" She laid her hand on the counter with a twenty half under it. "And anyplace else we might want to try?"

The girl gave Anna the names of three places to shop; she tucked the bill into her pocket and said, "What gives? How come she keeps trying to squeeze into tops two sizes too small?"

Anna gave her a disgusted look. "If you ever let your boyfriend talk you into getting implants, _don't _let him pick them out." She got Kat back into her track suit and headed out of the mall. On the way, they passed the jewelry kiosk where Roxanne had picked out her ornaments. "Let's go in here first. You need some things."

She encouraged the girl to pick out several items and a watch; the big redhead chose a mannish timepiece with a leather band. "Looks like the one Uncle Nathan gave me when I went to college. Do you think they're okay?"

"Yes, as long as IO doesn't pick up a hint that they're in contact with you; they'll be watched, but left alone, in hopes you'll get in touch." She looked through the display case, making sure there was an identical timepiece to purchase on her next visit. She picked up a duplicate of the crucifix she'd bought Roxanne. "Roxanne would like this, don't you think?"

An hour later, at a different mall, Anna called a break. "Hon, your stomach's growling. Let's get a meal in you before we hit the last store."

"I thought we were done. I've got two outfits. And swimsuits, sort of."

"Everybody else can get all they need in a few minutes at the nearest mall; you need to mount an expedition. I'm sure Mr. Lynch won't mind putting a few more pretty things in your closet." She caught a change in Kat's breathing and she turned to look at her. Two spots of color had appeared on the girl's cheeks. "Darling, whatever's the matter? Did I say something?"

The big redhead shook her head. "I just felt like a kept woman, all of a sudden."

"Kept woman? What does that mean?"

"Old fashioned term; euphemism for a certain kind of mistress. The man takes care of her food, shelter, and clothing. Her only job is to…" She let the sentence trail off.

"Kat, I'm absolutely certain Mr. Lynch isn't looking for any such arrangement."

"I know. But why _is_ he doing it?"

"I can't say. But I know he was determined to do it before he met any of you."

They stopped for lunch at a restaurant a corridor away from the food court. When the server took their menus, Kat said, "You're not eating?"

Anna sipped her water. "Not now. I find that if I only eat when I'm hungry, I never have to worry about gaining weight."

When the food arrived, she watched carefully but unobtrusively, noting the girl's menu choices and eating habits. Kat's table manners were impeccable, at least in public with a real dinner service in front of her. She hypothesized that her aunt and uncle had raised her carefully.

She also watched the lunch crowd, and noticed a curious behavior on the part of the male patrons. They were continually stealing glances at Kat. She was briefly alarmed, thinking they might be in danger of discovery. But no one reached for a phone or left the room abruptly; in fact, the seats around them filled more rapidly than the ones elsewhere in the restaurant. She understood that Kat was an attractive young woman; stunning, in fact, by the empirical standards of beauty she understood. But what was happening to every man in the room seemed to go beyond the effect of the girl's looks. Even men in the company of other women seemed unable to resist looking at her, causing them both distress and embarrassment; several of them left with their companions.

Too casually, Kat asked, "Anna, how well do you know Mr. Lynch?"

"About as well as anyone, I suppose. He doesn't discuss personal things very often."

"Do you know if he's got a girlfriend?"

She pretended to consider. "Well, if he does, he's not very attentive. He's been very busy this past month. I really don't think so."

"Hm." She focused on her meal again, and they were silent for a few minutes.

"Kat, have you got a boyfriend?"

The girl stopped with a fork halfway to her mouth and set it down; despite her neat conduct and the size of the meal, she was nearly done, having applied her full attention to the food. "No. Never dated either, unless you count study dates. My cousin Karen tried to talk me into doubling up a couple times, but I just never found the time. I was working towards that ninety-ninth percentile, trying to get an academic free ride, and I guess boys took too much time and energy." Certain aspects of her face and voice led Anna to conclude the girl wasn't telling the whole truth.

"Well, that pressure's off, at least for now. I feel sure that you're going to run across a great many dating opportunities. I wouldn't be surprised if strangers ask you out."

"For some reason, that doesn't brighten my day."

In the car, driving to the last store, eleven miles away, Anna said, "What did you mean, 'sort of'?"

"What?"

"You said you had swimsuits, sort of." The girl had selected her swimwear from a rack that sold tops and bottoms separately; she'd put together two outfits in solid colors.

"I'd rather have a one-piece, but I couldn't find one I could squeeze into. These fit, but there's not a lot to them."

"The ones Roxanne picked out cover less. And you don't need to wear them in public; you've got the pool. No one would see you but your friends."

"I'm not sure that makes it better." She sighed softly. "Roxy'll tell me I'm being a prude, and I should get used to it. Some ways, _she's_ the older sister."

The last store, The Runway, turned out to offer the best selection in street clothes. Anna observed Kat's pleasure as the girl went through the racks, and experienced what she was sure was an analogous sensation, as if they were tuning forks trimmed to the same frequency, and Kat's happy vibes were bringing a smile to Anna's face. _No wonder they smile so much when they're together_.

"I thought I'd never be able to wear pink again." Kat held up two shirts, spreading them against her. "What do you think?"

"Very nice."

"I mean, which one?"

She studied the two garments. They had different necklines, sleeves, and hems, and were made of different materials. They were both pink, but different shades. Exposure was different, but covered approximately the same amount of skin. She had absolutely no basis of reference for choosing one over the other. "I like them both. Get both of them."

On the way home, they passed a warehouse-sized toy store. Anna pulled in.

"What are we doing here?"

"Roxanne made a request." Once in the store, she marched up to the customer service desk, with Kat following. "Do you sell teddy bears?"

The sales girl looked at her as if she was an idiot. She picked up an object from the counter between them; Anna's hand had almost been resting on it. It was identical to a row of such toys directly behind the girl, and more in a wire basket next to the desk. "Like this one?"

She shook her head. "In pink, I mean."

"Try aisle six."

"Anna, what are you _doing_?" Kat's face was scarlet. The sales girl looked from one of them to the other curiously.

"Kat, your little sister asked me for a pink teddy bear." She looked up into the girl's eyes. "Cut her some slack. She just moved into a new place, and she's having trouble sleeping. _I _don't think she's too big for one." She turned from the counter. "You know what she likes better than I do. Help me choose?"

They arrived back at the house shortly before one. Eddie was smug. "Told you." Then he saw Kat carrying a double armload of bags. "Looks like you girls found a store after all. Rox is out by the pool. Find a suit?"

"Yes. Are the boys leaving now?" Kat was clearly uneasy about displaying her new swimwear, and her new figure, for the first time in front of a male audience.

"Soon as Mister Right Stuff is done playing with his hair."

Kat left. Eddie gestured towards the sink. "Dishes in there. Mine and Bobby's, anyway. And I think Kat's are in the dishwasher."

"That's fine, thank you, Eddie." She let the corner of her mouth twitch upward. "You know, I've been thinking. That was a really clumsy pass last night."

He shook his head. "Won't happen again." He didn't appear the least bit embarrassed.

"I suppose not. Looking back on it later, it puzzled me. When you already have Roxanne, why an attempt to seduce _me_? Until I realized it wasn't meant to succeed." She listened to his heart and breathing, and knew she was on target. "It was your way of pushing Bobby and me together, wasn't it?"

Now the boy did seem embarrassed. "It's not that you're not a babe, Anna."

"I'm not upset in the least. I think it's sweet. I won't tell him. But why?"

"Cuz I'm kinda hoping Sarah doesn't show up, and he'll be in the market for a girl who'll treat him right."

"He's my boss's son, Eddie."

He grinned. "Fringe benefit."

She shook her head and smiled. "You're incorrigible."

Bobby made his appearance, and they set off. "Never thought I'd end up a mall rat," the older boy said.

"Do you have someplace else in mind?"

"No. This is almost like another country, Anna. Even some of the fast food places have names I don't recognize."

"We should try one," Eddie said from the back seat. He'd insisted on seating Bobby up front with her. "Maybe the joint with the stupid name, means 'House of Eat' in Spanish."

"Bro, you just ate."

"On the way back, I mean."

She smiled. "Do all teenagers eat every two or three hours?"

"Only when we can."

One of the mall's anchor stores was Mickey's, a huge sporting goods and hobby store that also sold men's clothing; the store's motto was "Anything a guy could want." Even with Roxanne's complaint in mind, Anna was surprised at how quickly the boys selected two complete outfits each, from shoes to ball caps, and how similar the styles seemed. _Or maybe they're completely different, and I just can't spot it._ Swim trunks took barely a minute; underwear went into the cart as fast as the boys could pluck the packages off the pegs. In less time than Roxanne had needed to choose between two pairs of panties, they were done.

Eddie looked at his new jeans critically. "Gonna need some tailoring. Got any razor blades at home, Anna?"

"If you want a tailored fit, you should buy them two sizes smaller. And I can tailor them for you without a razor blade."

"I got a different sort of tailoring in mind. I'll need bleach, too."

Bobby wasn't looking at the racks any more. She followed his gaze, and saw that his attention was held by a display of guitars high on the wall above the clothing. "Bobby, do you play?"

"_Does_ he." Eddie grinned. "He could find a gig at one of those snooty coffee shops any night of the week. Not that he'd make any money at it; those places pay squat. But he's good."

She touched his arm. "Pick one out."

"It's not clothes. I don't need it."

"I'm sure your dad would want you to have it."

The boy's jaw set. "I don't need him showering me with gifts."

She got a better grip on his arm and tugged gently. "Then let _me_ buy it for you. Please."

He picked out an acoustic instrument; after a talk with the salesman, Anna added a case, a stand, extra strings, and picks to the purchase. "Do you have any hobbies, Eddie?"

He gave her a look that he probably thought was unreadable; to Anna, it was clear that his hobbies were something he wasn't prepared to discuss yet. "A few. You won't find anything in here, though." _Roxanne told me he collects "comic books"; I wonder what they look like, and where to get them._

The jewelry kiosk had a different salesgirl now; she decided the risk of visiting it three times in one day was minimal. "Pick out some watches. Eddie, I see your ears are pierced. See if you can find anything here to put in them, before they close up."

Again, the boys made their selections in minutes. She made a purchase as well, and Bobby eyed it critically. "That's kind of a big watch for you."

"Gift for Kat. Think she'll like it?"

On the way home, they stopped for gas at a station with a large convenience mart. Bobby insisted on pumping. Eddie got out and headed inside to buy a soft drink; he hadn't returned by the time the tank was full. Instead of paying with credit at the pump, she went inside.

Eddie was exploring the magazine rack towards the rear of the store. He lifted a magazine as she approached. "Guitar mag. For Bobby."

Several other publications were showing recent handling in infrared; all their covers displayed pictures of women exposing more flesh than customary in public. Eddie's breath grew shallow as she picked one up and thumbed through it to the last page that showed contact heat. "She's very pretty, isn't she? Doesn't it bother you that she's not decent? Is it because they're just pictures, instead of being close enough to touch?"

"Uh-"

She picked up another. "My. This girl resembles Kat, don't you think? Except Kat's rack is bigger, and she has longer legs. Are there any girls in these who look like Roxanne?"

She could hear him swallow. "Not really. None of them have her eyes."

She picked all the magazines he'd handled off the rack, including the guitar magazine, and then several more that appeared to be the same type, judging by the amount of exposed female skin on their covers. "I'm glad we found a store that caters to one of your hobbies, Eddie."

The drive home was quiet. As Anna inserted her keycard at the community gate and the arm swung up, Eddie said, "Oh, shit." Looking in the rear view mirror, she saw him slide down out of sight and heard his heart rate pick up; Bobby pulled his taco out of his mouth, said, "Cop," and held his breath.

"Not to worry, boys," she said, looking down the street at the cruiser gliding towards them. "That's _our_ cop." She drove under the gate and waved to the car; the uniformed figure inside smiled and lifted a hand in return as the vehicle passed, exiting the community. "That's Rick, going off-shift. Marty should be here in a minute. And if I have their schedule down, Brent will taking over at midnight until eight."

"Twenty-four-seven private cops?" Bobby was shocked. "There are twenty, twenty-five houses on this street."

"Twenty- eight. The residents like things orderly."

"Guess so." Eddie was looking out at the curb. "Most of them don't even leave their cars in the driveway."

"The cars in the driveways belong to servants of one sort or another. Residents agree not to park their cars anywhere but the garage, and close the doors after. It's a common restrictive covenant in upscale neighborhoods."

"Just to keep the streets neat?"

"It's an effective security measure. Parked cars attract thieves and vandals, and provide cover for burglars and muggers and other undesirables. The gate makes it difficult to bring a car in uninvited, and the lack of other vehicles makes strange cars stand out. Petty criminals don't linger here."

Bobby was looking at the mansions behind their expensive landscaping. "What about not-so-petty criminals?"

"They build." They turned into the driveway.

Once in the house, the boys headed for their room, loaded down with purchases. Anna took her small items to her room, and then headed out to the pool. She paused at the sliding glass doors and took a few seconds to survey the scene.

Kat was swimming laps in the small below-ground pool, cleaving the water and raising waves. Every time she reached the end and reversed direction, the water slopped over the rim, wetting the surrounding pavement. Roxanne had dropped one of the big lounge chairs flat, and was lying face-down, her head pillowed on her folded arms.

The state of Roxanne's suit gave Anna reason to review her notions of 'decency,' which she defined as "suitably attired for male company." It was a slippery concept, not directly related to the coverage provided by one's clothing. It seemed to vary with the purpose of the clothing, the room you were in, even the time of day. Anna wondered how Mr. Lynch would react to the sight of her by the pool in the swimsuit Roxanne had picked out for her, which was much briefer than the bra and panties she'd worn into his bedroom.

She was fairly certain that Roxanne's present state, even poolside, was "indecent." Her two-piece suit was constructed so that you could slide the fabric around on the supporting strings, thus widely varying the coverage. She'd bunched up the back of her bikini bottom to the width of her thumb, completely exposing her buttocks, and had untied the top at her neck and back, leaving her backside essentially naked from head to toes.

She cleared her throat. "We're back. The boys will be jumping into swim trunks as soon as they unpack."

Kat paddled straight to the ladder and climbed out, heading for the towel draped over a nearby chair. Anna looked at the two girls, comparing Kat's sense of modesty to Roxanne's. Kat's suit covered more skin than Roxanne's would at full extension. On the other hand, Kat was _showing _more square inches of skin than Roxanne would naked; the big redhead had twice her sister's surface area. _Which factor is more significant: exposure or concealment? Why?_

"Come _on_, Kat," Roxanne said, exasperated. "It isn't like you're busting out of it or anything. All the naughty bits are covered up."

_Ah. _Anna reviewed the pictures of women in Eddie's comics, the ones where the girls had been partly clad and in public. Decency seemed to require, at minimum, covering the nipples and pubic hair; Shaving the pubic region allowed for briefer coverage, but still required covering the labia. Other rules concerning minimum coverage still seemed mysteriously variable.

"You said Bobby's coming out?" Roxanne sighed and reached back to spread out her suit bottom, then reached behind her to tie her top in back. _Another variable. She can allow more exposure with Eddie than with Bobby. Is it because he's hot and she has plans for him?_ "You're not going to _change_, are you? Just because the guys showed up?"

"I was raised in a city where it rains three hundred days a year," Kat said, wrapping the towel around her and heading for the door. "And I spent the last six months in an underground bunker. I've had enough sunshine for a while."

"Wimp." Roxanne laid her head back down.

The girl's back was starting to show an elevated return in infrared. "Roxanne, you missed a spot with your lotion."

"Where?"

"Center of your back, just below the string. Put some on for you?"

"Thanks, yes."

She fetched the sunscreen bottle from under the chair, squeezed an ounce of oily cream into her palm, and applied it to the center of Roxy's back. The girl twitched, producing a complex pattern of ripples on the surface of her skin, and in the tiny underlying muscles as well.

"Hey! Cold!"

"Sorry." She spread the fluid over the exposed area, delighting in the feel of the girl's skin stirring against her palm. _Biological construction is so complex._"Looks like you've sweated most of this off. Want me to get the rest of your backside?"

Roxy tensed. "Um… Anna, are you _sure_ you're not?"

"Not what?"

The girl turned her head; one violet eye regarded her from among the damp strands of black and purple hair. "Gay."

Analytical subroutines came online and began to draw resources. "I'm quite sure. Why do you ask?"

"If I'm wrong, don't hate me, okay? When you put the oil on and ran your hand over me, I got this weird feeling you were, you know, exploring."

"Oh. My bad. I was. You've got the most _marvelous _skin. But it was pure admiration. It wasn't meant to be sexual." _So this is a close approximation of foreplay. Interesting._

"You like _my _skin? Gawd. I don't think you've even got _pores_."

"The offer stands. I'll slap it on like I'm painting a fence, honest. I just don't want you to get burned. You kids haven't seen the sun in a while."

"Kay." She dropped her head back down.

As she applied an even coat of sunscreen to the girl's back, she listened to a minor commotion inside the house, too faint for Roxy to hear. First came a snapping sound, followed immediately by a squeal from Kat. "Cut it out." Another snap. "_Stop_it." Another snap, followed by a theatrically evil laugh. Another snap. Then a growl from Kat, followed by a cry of alarm and the sound of bare feet pounding through the house. Several quick snaps, followed by a cry from Eddie. "Ow ow _ow_!" A giggle from Kat, and the sound of a chase leading up and down the stairs, punctuated by laughter from both parties and continued snapping noises.

"I'm still mad at you." Roxanne's voice was muffled.

"Sokay. You've got a lot to be mad about. Seems like life's been dealing your hands from the bottom of the deck up till now." She poured more oil into her hand, and spread it on the backs of the girl's legs. "And if I were you, I'd have some issues with authority too. Be as mad at me as you need to. But mind the rules."

"'Rules.' More coming, I suppose?"

"I'm sure there will be caveats and restrictions to observe when you're free to leave the house. I haven't discussed details with Mr. Lynch. But I'm also sure they won't be any harsher or more restrictive than they have to be to keep you safe. He's no control freak, and he doesn't get off ordering people around." She wiped her hands on a corner of a towel.

"Anna." The same tone of voice as before. Her analytical software fired up again. "Do you _want_ to sleep with him?"

A wide range of possible responses opened up. There were too many unknown factors involved to narrow her choices to a single best response. She was forced to examine her own motivations and abilities, including her lack of a full understanding of what might constitute 'sleeping' with Mr. Lynch; it seemed to go beyond two people satisfying their reproductive urges. The possible responses ranged from telling the girl to mind her own business to a frank admission of her inadequacies to outright lies, and she lacked data to choose among them.

She took so long reviewing her possible answers that Roxanne noticed her hesitation, and turned on her side to face her. "Well?"

Any further delay would result in the girl drawing her own conclusions, no matter what answer she received later. Anna would have to make an intuitive decision.

She cleared her throat to gain another hundred milliseconds; no new responses appeared, nor did any drop out of her set of possibles. She selected one that seemed appropriate, although she couldn't have said why. "I can't say I haven't thought about it, from time to time. Especially that first week he brought me here. He was so caring and sweet, I'd have done anything for him. But sometimes I feel closer to him than a wife already. I don't know how sex might change that. I won't risk sleeping with him without a good reason."

The girl stared at her. "That may be the most honest thing you've said since we came here." Her eyes narrowed. "Just so you know, I never bought that wet-palm thing, so I know you lie to me, Anna. I'm just not sure why, or how much. Word up. Good intentions only take you so far. If you lie to me enough, if you cross the bullshit threshold, I'll skip. And I won't be the only one. Like you said before, we don't know who to trust."

"I'm sorry." Anna hung her head while she analyzed the girl's words and sought solutions to ease her suspicions. "I just don't know how you could possibly be ready for the whole truth."

"Well, how about a taste of this uncomfortable truth? Like you said, I'm a big girl. You were an experiment too. Weren't you?"

A course of action presented itself, one that might reduce the girl's sense of isolation and make her more trusting. But she would have to choose her path and her words carefully. Without looking up, she said, "Roxanne, if we talk about this, you can't repeat it. Not to Eddie. Not even Mr. Lynch. He doesn't know the whole story, and the little I told him made him so angry it frightened me."

Roxy leaned forward, intent. "I won't tell a soul. They locked you up too, didn't they? In the dark?"

"Yes," she said in a small voice.

"_Knew_ it. How long? Two weeks, three?"

Her performance was culled from partial scenes from a dozen television shows and films; her statements would be absolute truth. She opened her mouth and shut it. She caught her lower lip between her teeth and let it go, while Roxy waited. "Fifteen months."

The girl stopped breathing. "You didn't say…"

"Fourteen months, twenty-nine days, actually. My imprisonment wasn't like yours, though. I was only in the dark for twelve, sixteen hours at a stretch most times. They let me out four or five times a week for experiments."

The girl's heart rate rose. "Experiments?"

"That's what they called them. Although, I could never figure out what they were learning from giving me ice water baths and electric shocks."

A tiny intake of breath from her listener, then respiration resumed, but more shallowly. Fear reaction.

"They were all men. One of them liked to put his hands on me. I didn't have any choice. There was always more than one, and one of them kept a gun pointed at me as soon as they let me out of the box. I did what they told me, and they did what they wanted." She ran her hands down her body, as if remembering. "Another one… had a sense of humor, I guess. He was the one in charge of taking me out and putting me back in when they were done with me. Each time he opened the door, he'd ask me if I was going to be a good girl today. He wouldn't let me out until I promised. As if I had the slightest choice. I'd spend the day following their instructions and trying not to think. Then back in the box, for the night, or the weekend."

"Why do you call it a box?" she could see the girl's pulse beating in her neck, in time to the thudding of her heart.

"That's what it was. A steel box, about as big inside as our fridge. I had to lift my foot and duck to get in. I couldn't stand on tiptoe without bumping my head, or stick an elbow out without touching a wall."

Roxy exhaled softly. Somehow, she made it sound like a wordless prayer.

"So you see, I don't know what it was like for you; my… experience was different. I'm sure what they did to you was just as horrible… or would have been, eventually." She let her voice grow distant. "I was blind most of the time, and the only sounds were mine. After a while, I sort of switched off. I got to where I was switching off as soon as I went back in the box, before I heard the locks click. A little later, and I would even switch off when I was out of the box, when I could. When you're awake and aware less than forty hours a week, the time goes by fast. There were times I wanted to switch off all the time."

Roxy made a gesture, as if she wanted to reach for her. But she drew her hand back and grew still as Anna continued.

"I don't know how much I've forgotten. When Mr. Lynch brought me home, he had to teach me like a child. He wouldn't let me near the stove." She displayed the hint of a smile. "He stood in the tub with his clothes on, trying to show me how to take a shower. He looked so scary, trying to explain about needing to be properly dressed in front of a man, until I realized he wasn't mad at _me_. And when he understood I expected to be locked up for the night, he played this little game with me on opposite sides of my bedroom door, to show me the lock was _mine_, to use or not, and told me I'd never be forced to spend the night behind a locked door again."

She lifted her head and looked into the girl's wide and beautiful eyes. "I'll die before I go back."

"How did they get you?"

"I don't know. As far as my memories go, my life began in that lab." She shook her head. "Sometimes I'll do something new, and it comes to me so easy I _know_ I've done it before. And sometimes the simplest things are a mystery to me. It's no wonder you guys look at me like I'm not all there half the time. There may be gaps I'll never fill. And I know I perceive the world differently from other people. But I'm stable and functional, or Mr. Lynch wouldn't have given me this job."

She stood. "I wasn't lying when I said no amount of money could make me like you, or when I said I'd be your friend, no matter what. I'll die before I let them take you. And if I learn they've got you, I'll come for you." She spread the last traces of oil on her hands, rubbing them together and avoiding Roxy's eyes. "I hope those intentions are good enough for you to raise the bullshit threshold a little, because I want you to stay. But don't feel sorry for me, and don't think I'm done lying to you or pushing you around. This is just an interlude. I'm sure you'll find a new reason to be mad at me."

She turned towards the door, and heard Bobby's voice from the kitchen, too faint for Roxanne to hear. "Man. You better jump in the pool as soon as you get outside. You look like you stumbled into a bee's nest."

"Totally worth it. Getting her out of her _towel_ was worth it. I was sure she'd be wearing some butt-ugly big-girl suit, you know? Like a sailor outfit with a skirt, something like that. _Woo!_ And did you _see_ her, bounding up and down the stairs?"

"I was afraid to look. I didn't think the suit would make it, either piece."

"Ex_actly_! And you didn't _look_?"

"Bro, seeing Kat naked would be like staring into the sun."

"Heh. Dude, you're _such _a straight arrow."

Bobby came through the sliding door, dressed in trunks and carrying a towel; a moment later, Eddie appeared behind him, also in trunks with a towel, rubbing the small of his back.

"I'm off to the store, kids. You've got my number. Expect me home in time to start dinner." She fastened her gaze on Eddie. "Eddie, what's wrong?"

"Came out on the losing side of a towel fight. With Kat." Six huge welts marked the boy's back. "She doesn't know her strength, heh."

"Oh, my. You want salve? Aspirin?"

"Neh."

"Omigod." Kat was standing in the doorway, dressed in shorts and a shirt. "I did that? Eddie, I'm _so_ sorry."

He grinned. "Forget it, Red. Looks lots worse than it feels. It was fun. It's nice to see you loosen up once in a while."

Kat followed her to the garage door. "You want some help?"

She eyed the girl: six and a half feet tall, red hair, starlet's figure; everyone who saw her at the market would remember her. "No. Until we learn the shape of the search IO is conducting for you, you should stay under cover as much as possible. If I were you, hon, I'd put your other suit on and go back out to the pool."

"Uh… I didn't realize at the time, but the other suit shows more. I'm not sure about it."

"Does it cover all the naughty bits?"

"Well, the straps on the top aren't much more than laces. And the bottom's Brazil cut."

"Meaning?"

"I never had a suit that left my hips bare."

Anna shook her head. "I think your sister's right. You've got nothing to worry about. The sooner you get out there, the sooner the boys will stop noticing what you're wearing. Go play in the pool, and have some fun." _And perhaps Eddie deserves a little reward for "loosening you up."_

Lydy's was an upscale grocery two blocks from the gate; it was patronized by all the gated communities' residents or their domestics. It was a large store, with a copious selection of exotic and imported goods, from produce with unpronounceable names to Spanish wines. Although the building was sited in a middle-class neighborhood, the neighbors seldom shopped there; Lydys' prices didn't suit five-figure incomes.

Anna was most of the way through her list, and her cart was nearly full. She cruised slowly down the aisle, pretending difficulty with the heavy load, as she planned her visit to a specialty electronics shop she'd used before. As she'd shopped with the kids, she'd made sure they'd each acquired something they'd keep with them at all times: a watch, necklace, or bracelet. She'd bought duplicates of every item in order to pull a switch. Before Mr. Lynch let the kids out of the house, she intended to bug them all with GPS locators. She wasn't about to let their lives depend on whether they remembered to leave her an itinerary and check in regularly; Genactives or not, they were _teenagers_.

A cart rolled up alongside hers. "Anne, dear. This isn't your day to shop." An older woman's voice.

She put on a sunny expression. "Hello, Mrs. Sylvestri." _Not your usual day to shop either._ She took a millisecond glance into the woman's cart: empty, even though they were meeting in the center of the sales floor. _As if you entered the store, grabbed a cart, and came looking for me._

The woman was looking over Anna's cart as well, which held five times her normal purchases. Glenda Sylvestri was their next-door neighbor, one house closer to the gate. She was a long-time widow who lived with her housekeeper and a pair of Corgis, Vicious and Rotten. She was on speaking terms with everyone on the street, even the criminals, and knew a great many people in nearby private communities as well. She fancied herself the neighborhood socialite, and threw frequent dinner parties; Mr. Lynch had avoided several invitations, citing the press of business and prior commitments. She was also the neighborhood gossip clearinghouse and a tireless busybody.

Mrs. Sylvestri leaned close. "Darling, you're not very good at keeping secrets. Does Mr. Lynch know you have a boyfriend staying over while he's gone?" Before she could say a word, the woman went on. "I was walking Vicious on the beach this morning, and I glanced up towards your pool and saw him, practicing some sort of karate moves in his boxers." She let her eyelids droop as she gave Anna a sly smile and touched a tongue to her upper lip theatrically. "He looks scrumptious. But I would never have guessed he'd be your type. Opposites _must_ attract; he looks like a _very_ bad boy."

She let her eyebrows gather. "Mrs. Sylvestri… what did this guy look like?"

The woman's amusement changed to mild alarm at Anna's question. "A bit taller than you, I think; I can't say how much. Very muscular. Brown hair, about even with his jaw."

She showed relief. "Oh. That must be Eddie. I didn't know he did karate." She smiled again. "Mr. Lynch's son is home from school, and he invited some friends along. Two boys, two girls so far, and maybe more on the way. The house is packed for a change." She looked down at her cart. "It's why I'm shopping today. They've only been here a day, and there's nothing left to eat in the house. They're _locusts_."

"I didn't know John had a son."

_You don't know anything about him, or you wouldn't call him John._"Bobby. He's sixteen, and a heartbreaker. He was at a private boarding school, back east somewhere. It sounds like a boot camp for young geniuses. Doesn't it figure, that Mr. Lynch's son would be some kind of prodigy?"

Early in their acquaintance, Anna had developed a method for diverting the woman's inquiries without appearing secretive. She portrayed herself as innocent, trusting, and garrulous, completely open and willing to divulge information. As they strolled down the aisles side by side, the neighbor listened quietly, with a minimum of questions, as Anna rattled on, filling the woman's ears with information without revealing anything critical. "You should see how Eddie wears his clothes. He'll take a brand new pair of pants and slash them up with a razor, then wash them six times in bleach. When he's done, they look like they were passed through a jet engine."

Her phone rang: the house was calling. "Hello?"

"_Hey, Anna._"

"Eddie. I was just talking about you." She took a small gamble and held the phone an inch from her ear, allowing the woman to eavesdrop if she cared to. "Is everything all right?"

"_Yeah. Just called to put in an order for more suntan oil._"

She looked at the neighbor woman. "The course load at this school must not leave them time to lift their heads out of their books. They're all _starved_ for sunshine." She turned back to the phone. "What happened to the full bottle we started with this morning?"

"_About gone. Every time Kat jumps in the pool, she's gotta put on a coat when she comes out. Takes a quarter bottle to cover her._"

"Redheads burn easily, Eddie. And you shouldn't make fun of her just because she's a big girl."

"_In that case, I won't tell you how the water level drops a foot every time she jumps in and climbs out._"

"_Eddie_. Shame on you. I should feed you Brussels sprouts for dinner."

"_Be better than what we ate when we were in the cells. Later._"

She closed the phone, shaking her head. "Teenage boys. Kat weighs two hundred pounds. Horribly self-conscious. We went to four stores this morning, and she couldn't find a suit that covered enough to please her. I'm glad I'm through that part of my life."

"Lord, yes. What's this about cells?"

"Their dorms have a ten o'clock curfew. Teenagers can be _so _dramatic." She headed for the checkout.

"Anne… do you know anyone who could cater a small party on short notice?"

She stopped. "How short?"

"Seven tonight." _Two hours, sixteen minutes._ The woman suddenly looked bleak. "Carmel quit without notice this morning, just walked out. I found out when I came back from the club this afternoon."

_You must not talk to her much, Glenda. She's been grousing about the way you treat her for weeks, to every domestic she meets regularly in this store, including me. _"Oh, my. An emergency?"

"I'm sure I don't know." Mrs. Sylvestri's mouth thinned to a line. "I don't even have time to cancel." She abandoned her empty cart as Anna reached the checkout aisle. Lydy's always had enough lanes open that its customers never had to wait in line; service was one of the store's attractions, and a justification for its prices.

Anna began loading the conveyor with her usual efficiency, putting her purchases on the belt at a speed that just matched that of the girl scanning her purchases, which allowed her to choose her items in the order she wanted them bagged without appearing unnaturally fast. "How many guests?"

"Only six, but I know I won't be able to reach them all in time."

"Did you tell your guests the menu?"

"No."

"Do they have any allergies or dietary restrictions?"

"I'm sure I don't know, dear." She looked puzzled.

"If they did, would they call the house to tell Carmel instead of you?"

"No." Comprehension dawned.

"Then we're in the clear. I'll have to pick up a few things, but I have some stuff pre-prepared in my own freezer. I'm sure I can put together a passable meal in time. I'll feed the kids at six, then pop over with the dishes and groceries and finish it up in your kitchen. Hm. I'd better put on my uniform, too; you'll need someone to serve."

"Anne, you're a _lifesaver_." The woman placed a hand over Anna's where it gripped the handle. "Name your price for this. I mean it."

She smiled. "Give me what you would have paid Carmel to do it. Half a day's pay."

"Don't be ridiculous. On top of taking care of a houseful of kids? I'll see you get treated better than that."

Anna mentally retraced Mrs. Sylvestri's day. _She noticed the activity next door, and used her dog as an excuse to look our house over from the beach. She spotted Eddie, and probably told her lady friends about my new lover over a long lunch. She walked into her house three hours before dinner, and found her kitchen cold and her cook AWOL. Nevertheless, she wasn't too panicked to notice cars going by her house. She saw me, and got an idea. She waylaid me in the market, hoping to use what she'd seen as leverage to talk me into helping her. And when she found out about Mr. Lynch's houseguests, she was so fascinated she forgot her predicament until I was ready to leave._ The woman was oblivious to the attention of the store's staff, who were pretending hard not to listen. _This story will spread like a wildfire, Glenda. _She wondered if the woman had ever been the subject of neighborhood gossip before, and, if not, how she would handle it. _"Find out how it feels." That's the term. You're going to find out how it feels._

As a bag boy headed out into the lot with her cart and her keys, searching for her minivan among the Beamers and Lexuses, she said in a low voice, "There _is_ something you could do for me. If you're willing."

The woman's voice matched hers. "Name it."

"You seem like a person who doesn't let much slip by her. You always know what's going on in the neighborhood, and you know absolutely _everybody_. I feel responsible for these kids while they're here, and I don't know what sort of trouble they might attract. If you notice anything odd, will you let me know? I wouldn't ask you to turn into a gossip or anything; just let me know if there's any unusual interest in the house or the neighborhood." She looked up at her, entreaty in her eyes. "Mr. Lynch wouldn't be happy if they get into trouble while he's gone."

The woman's mouth twitched. "Don't worry, dear. I'll keep a close eye. He won't have any reason to be angry with you."

She smiled up at the neighbor. "Great. Just one thing more. Mrs. Sylvestri, if I'm using your kitchen, it's _mine_. No trespassers."

Glenda smiled. "Not to worry, I've hired temperamental cooks before. I'll see you soon. And thanks again, _ma cherie_._Au'voir_."

"_D'accord_, Mrs. Sylvestri. _A bientot_."

She stopped. "You speak French, Miss Devereaux?"

"Oh. No. Just a couple phrases I picked up. See you at six-thirty." _Never hurts to throw out a false lead now and again._

Bobby met her car in the garage, and insisted on helping her with the bags. "Anna, is it too late to bill my father for that guitar? I'm sure he could afford it better than you."

She piled groceries onto the counter, and headed back to the garage. "Humph. Are you throwing my gift in my face, Bobby?"

"_No_. It's just, you were going to put it on his account in the first place, but I was stupid about it."

"I'm sure it won't be your last opportunity to accept a gift from your father. The guitar was my gift, and my pleasure." They pulled the second and last load from the car and headed back to the kitchen. "If you feel obligated, play it for me."

"Uh, it's not tuned yet. How about later?" He helped her unpack. "I used to cook at home. My last home, that is. You need any help?"

"Yes. Go tune your guitar. I need to hear you playing by tonight."

III

"Anne, that was wonderful." Darkness had fallen before the party wound down and the guests departed. Glenda watched Anna load her dishes back into her minivan by the light over the side door. "I can't believe you pulled all this out of your freezer, but I can't believe you had time to make it, either. Everyone _raved_ about the chicken."

"Well, the soup stock and sauces came from my freezer. The chicken I started while I was cooking for the kids. Everything else, I did right in your kitchen. Mind, I was still working on dessert while I was serving the soup, but I think it all turned out okay."

"Lord, yes. If you feed John like this, I don't see how he stays so slender."

She smiled. "He's gone so much, I don't get to put many meals in him. So I have to make each one count."

"Dear, you're a treasure. The man simply doesn't know how lucky he is. If you ever feel like changing employers… for any reason… I'll pay you twice what John does."

_I doubt it. I happen to know you paid Carmel less than a quarter of what Mr. Lynch pays me. _"Thanks, but I like my job. And I'm fond of Mr. Lynch. He's a great boss. You never have to guess what he expects from you."

The sly look was back in Glenda Sylvestri's eyes. "Yes. I don't doubt it. Is he coming home while the kids are here?"

"Sure. He doesn't see much of Bobby. But he had some emergency that needed immediate attention. I'm expecting him back in a day or two."

"I can see where it might be… awkward, sharing a roof with John and all those kids at the same time."

_Perhaps if I was sleeping with him, which appears to be what you're hinting at. Which is another reason why you'll never know what he pays me._"Not at all. The kids are used to doubling up in dorms. We've got enough beds, barely. If we get another boy and girl, I'll have to double up with her, is all. No problem." She closed the hatch. "Time to see what's left of my house. Good night, Mrs. Sylvestri."

She started the car for the hundred–fifty-meter journey: fifty down Glenda's driveway to the street, fifty to her driveway, and fifty into the garage, just on the other side of the hedge. She was well pleased with how dinner had turned out, and not just because she'd made a couple hundred dollars that hadn't come from Mr. Lynch's pocket, or because she'd added another layer of security to their perimeter. One of the guests had been a local bureaucrat; while she'd served and carved, he'd spoken about how the Department of Homeland Security had just raised the public alert level a notch, to Orange. "Not that anyone's likely to notice. It's all very low-key, so as not to frighten anyone or scare these guys off."

"What's it all about? Al-Qaeda?"

"One of our security agencies claims to have evidence of some new terrorist group. If it's right, these nuts have small cells all over the country, some lying low, some on the move, waiting for something. Security at transport hubs is tightening up, airports and train and bus stations that is, and the Interstates are going to have extra police presence for a while. Speed traps, seat belt and sobriety checkpoints, that sort of thing."

She thought of Bobby's girl. _I hope she comes back with Mr. Lynch. Hitchhiking sounds riskier than ever._

As she entered the house with her crockery, she heard the sound of guitar strings being plucked experimentally; Bobby was still tuning up in his room, apparently. She listened for sounds from the other kids, and heard the girls in the living room, talking low over the television. She set the dishes on the counter and went looking for her charges.

Kat and Roxy were on the couch together, watching a movie. She came up behind them. "What are you watching?"

Kat turned her head slightly. "_Return to Me. _It's almost over. The boys were doing their own thing, so we were feeling like a chick flick."

"Chick flick. Sure." She looked over the couch at the figures on the screen. "Which one is Chick?"

Roxanne avoided Kat's attempt to make eye contact, and turned towards her. "A chick flick is a movie girls watch over and over again, and puts guys to sleep the first time they see it."

"Gotcha." _That leaves only Eddie unaccounted for._ "Anybody hungry? I can put something together as soon as I change out of my uniform."

Kat hoisted a huge bowl of popcorn into view. "No, thanks. We're good."

Roxanne picked a kernel out of the bowl and flung it at the screen. "Belushi's such a _turd _in this one." Kat glanced at her sister, but said nothing until Anna left the room. The housekeeper listened from the kitchen as she put her dishes away.

"Whatever this _deal_ is between you, I think you're pushing it."

"If you think so, ask her. I'm just letting her know I haven't forgotten."

From the cupboard, she fetched a small item she'd bought at the grocery. She entered the girls' room as she heard the DVD player go off. She plugged it into the wall by Roxanne's bed and picked the girl's damp swimsuit off the floor.

As she stepped into the hall, Bobby strummed a tune, singing softly. From the timbre and range of his speaking voice, she'd expected him to be a talented singer. But the range and resonance of his sixteen-year-old singing voice surprised her.

_I never dreamed there'd be love_

_In a woman like you._

_They said you were nothing but trouble, the stories were true._

_You pull me so close, then you push me away._

_I don't know if I matter at all._

_Then with one little look or a word you change all the rules._

_Oh, whyyyyyyyyyyyyy'd I fall in love_

_Oh, whyyyyyyyyyyyyy'd I fall in love_

_With you?_

_I never dared to imagine_

_A lover like you._

_One moment familiar, the next you're totally new._

_We cannot agree on the simplest things._

_I don't know if I know you at all_

_How can I love you and hate the things that you do?_

_Oh, howwwwwwwww'd I fall in love_

_Oh, howwwwwwwww'd I fall in love_

_With you?_

"Dude, trying to read here."

The guitar strummed gently. "You're staring at pictures of shameless women. I'm surprised you're holding that rag with both hands. Which reminds me. You _do _remember we're sharing the bathroom with three girls, right?"

"I think about it every time I step in the shower. _Oh_, where that washcloth has been."

"Perv. Keep it neat. I don't want one of them finding something disgusting and blaming _me_."

"_I'm _a perv? I'm not the one singing songs he lifted from some chick band. It's not natural for a guy to hit notes like that and not sound like a dog howling."

"I wrote that song."

"_Dude._ I'm afraid to ask what you call it."

More plucking, as the boy tightened a string slightly; her hearing determined that the tuning was now perfect. "Don't worry, there's no girl's name in the title. It's just a song. Chicks love it."

"Pathetic. You really one of those losers thinks he can loosen up a girl's thighs with a frickin serenade? Why don't you ever play something a guy can get off on, like Nirvana?"

"Unplugged? That would insult the instrument _and_ the music."

She knocked on the door. "Guys, I'm headed for the shower. Will you want anything after I come out?"

The door opened; Eddie stood in the doorway, with Bobby sitting up in bed, his guitar on his lap. "Neh. I think we're about done in. All that fun in the sun, y'know?"

"Okay." She looked at Bobby. "I heard, from the kitchen. Thank you, Bobby. I've never heard a man sing so beautifully. I think it loosened my thighs." They were just as firmly connected as ever, of course, but the idiom seemed to be a compliment.

As she headed down the hall, she heard Bobby's voice from behind the closed door. "Don't say a word."

"Heh. Heh. And she called you a _man_."

"I mean it, Eddie."

"You should move in with her tonight, while you don't have much stuff. Save time. Then I'll have my own room, for entertaining."

"This song has six more verses. If you don't shut up right now, you're gonna hear every one of them, swear to God."

She dropped the suit down the laundry chute, visited her room for a change of clothing, and headed for the bathroom. Just before she entered the shower, she heard Roxanne's voice from the girls' room, soft and wondering. "I don't frickin' believe it. A _night light_."

By the time she emerged from the shower and dressed, the kids were all in bed. She saw that the living room floor between the TV and the couch was littered with popcorn kernels; the forty-inch flatscreen was dotted with grease marks where they'd bounced off. With no one else to see, she worked at accelerated speed, as she'd done in Mrs. Sylvestri's kitchen; the mess was picked up and wiped clean in seconds.

A little later, while she was baking bread and preparing the next day's meals, the phone burred. She picked it up before the end of the first ring. She recognized the caller without checking the ID, before he spoke, just from his breathing. "Here, sir. We're private."

"_Is Sarah there?_"

"No. Did you see her?"

"_She was already gone when I got here, one step ahead of IO. People are watching her parents' house, and her grandmother's. There are tails on her family whenever they leave home. If one of them lets slip that she's been here…_" He exhaled heavily. "_At least she didn't hang around. The people here are clannish. And the tribal elders have spread the word. No one will talk to a stranger about her, and there aren't many whites living here, so extended surveillance is almost impossible. Without evidence she's been here, they'll pull back soon. I'm just going to hang around for another day, to make sure that her hunters don't do something desperate._"

_Like kidnapping one of her family, to force her out of hiding._ "Would that work?"

"_I think so. But they won't risk it unless they're sure she's in contact. I'm not one hundred percent certain she's headed for the house, but if she comes there, try to find out if she's set up some way to keep in touch. If she's established a connection, I'll have to sever it. For all our sakes._"

"I just heard tonight that the government is tightening security on travel. Including highways."

"_It's out of our hands, Anna. If they pick her up, I have people who'll tell me. Be ready to move fast, with the kids._"

"We're all staying close to the house until you get back. I can have them in the car and rolling out of here in two minutes."

"_Good. Any more challenges to your authority?_"

"Does fending off a pass count?"

A pause. "_Eddie._"

"His heart wasn't in it, really. He just thought it was expected of him."

"_Humph. Anything else?_"

"The kids still have the money you gave them. I told them I'd ask what you want to do with it."

"_Petty cash. Let them keep it. I'm sure they need things._"

"I strongly advise against that, sir. Forty thousand dollars, or even ten thousand, is _not_ petty cash to them. Take it back, and give them allowances, small ones."

"_Why?_"

"I don't think any of them have experience handling large sums of cash. And kids their age seldom come by such money honestly. I think they'll attract unwanted attention with it. They _do_ need things. Be as generous with gifts as you like. But keep them short on pocket money, at least for now." _And if you're going to gift them, you'll have to know them better, and be more engaged, than if you just throw money at them. It isn't enough that I'm learning to be a surrogate mother; you have to learn to be a dad._

"_It sounds like they're keeping you busy, Anna. Don't sugar-coat it. How are you handling it?_"

She blinked, and took as large a breath as her undersized "lungs" would allow.

"The demands they place on my time and resources exceed all my calculations. They want to be fed every two hours. Dirt flies up off the ground and sticks to them until they reach the carpet. Two of them act as if they never learned to clean up after themselves. I'm baking, cooking, and cleaning for hours every day."

She drew another breath. "My human-analog routines are being tested to their limit and beyond. They draw an enormous amount of computing power every time I'm in a conversation, and I still can't talk to one of them for more than five minutes without them looking at me as if I've lost my mind. They're precocious and inquisitive, and they pop up at my elbow at the most inopportune times. They've already noticed things about me that I didn't hide well enough. I'm certain that my disguise won't last a week. My predictive software is nearly useless; I'm working from insufficient data, improvising all the time, and I can only wait and see if I've done the right thing."

Another breath. "Having them here is completely rearranging my life. My very existence is starting to turn around their wants and needs. They need a million things, and they have a million questions, and they come to me for _everything_." She finally ran down.

She heard him exhale. "_Whoa. Guess I didn't realize how big the job would be. I'm sorry I got you into this, Anna. But we really don't have much choice, now. Maybe I can arrange some help for you,_" he said doubtfully.

"Oh, you misunderstand me _completely_, sir." Something made her smile into the phone. "I'm having the time of my _life_." She lowered her voice. "Thank you for giving them to me."

III

Two hours before dawn, Anna was in the basement, folding laundry while the dryer completed its last load, and listening to stealthy sounds from the bedrooms above her.

"Dude, I can't believe we're getting up for a _meeting_. The birds aren't even up yet." Eddie's voice was low, conspiratorial.

"I hear the dryer running downstairs," Roxanne said. "Jesus. Doesn't she ever sleep?"

"We need to make sure she can't hear us," Kat said. "Eddie, go downstairs and find out. Also, see how long she's going to be down there."

"Why me?"

"Because she already knows you're up at all hours. I'll turn on the TV. If you can hear it, tell her you're watching it until you fall asleep."

The dryer buzzed. She unloaded it onto the folding table, turning her back on the stairs as she heard Eddie's soft tread on the steps. She hummed a tune as she snapped sheets and folded them.

"Anna."

She jumped. "_Eddie!_You have _got_ to stop doing that. Why are you up at three forty-three in the morning?"

"Just woke up and couldn't get back to sleep."

"Do you want me to fix you something? I'll be done here in twelve minutes."

"No. I just came down to see what the noise was." He cocked his head. "Do you hear something?"

She pretended to listen. In addition to the TV, she heard the sound of footsteps on carpet and couch cushions being compressed. "No. Do you?"

He shook his head. "Thought I did, but no. Think I'll watch the tube a while, and go back to bed. G'nite."

"Sweet dreams, Eddie."

A few moments later, she heard him join the others in the living room. "You can't hear anything down there, but I closed the door at the top of the stairs anyway. She won't be coming up for ten minutes."

"All right then." Kat turned businesslike. "Some things have been brought up concerning Anna, things that aren't adding up. We need to put our heads together about it, see if it changes our situation here."

"Oh, cripes, Rox, give it a rest. She's not crazy for keeping your butts out of the house. I don't like smelling them either."

"She didn't call this meeting," Bobby said. "I did."

"O-kay. Can you at least explain why we didn't have it last night, when she was out of the house for four freakin hours?"

"Cuz I didn't decide we needed it until she poked her head in our room last night."

"Heh. Which reminds me. She's singing your song down there."

A heartbeat of silence, then Bobby said, "I'd like to save my observations for last. What else have we noticed? Kat?"

"More of the same, I guess. There are some weird gaps in her knowledge of commonplace things, like slang terms. It's as if she spent her life in a fallout shelter."

"Eddie? Anything?"

Eddie said quietly, "She thinks _Hustler_'s a comic book."

Roxanne snorted. Eddie said, "I mean it. Somebody must have told her I'm a collector. Yesterday, she gives me a stack of skin mags as thick as a phone book, and says they're for my comics collection. And get this: in the pile, there was a copy of _Cosmo_ and an issue of _Women's Health._ See a connection?" When no one answered, he went on. "_Cosmo_ always has some busty bimbo on the cover busting out of her shirt, or some such. _Women's Health_ always shows some gym rat in an outfit that bares her six-pack. She looked at all the covers and saw chicks showing skin, and couldn't tell the difference. Is that weird, or what?"

"Okay, sis. You're the one who got us started noticing things. Anything new?"

A pause, then Eddie's voice. "Come _on_, Rox. I can tell you're thinking of something."

_If you tell them, Roxanne, it won't be the end of the world, but I'm going to be disappointed._

"She has a clock in her head. I know, most people can guess the time, and get close with practice. I'm talking about atomic clock accurate. She doesn't wear a watch, and there aren't many clocks in this house, and I never see her look at one anyway. But if you ask her the time, she can always tell you, exactly. If you ask her how long it takes to do something or drive somewhere, she tells you to the minute, and she's always right. When we were in the store, she looked at a watch for one frickin second and knew it was running slow, a minute a day. I couldn't do that if I had an hour." She drew a breath. "The same time she did that, she looked up and down the corridor in the mall, maybe two seconds, and told me how many girls were wearing earrings, and how many for each."

"Idiot savant," Eddie suggested. "Like _Rain Man_."

"How could she look at a girl two hundred feet down the hall and tell how many holes she's got in her ears, Grunge? One more thing. On the way back into the house, she checked the pool temp without using the thermometer. Just dipped her finger in and said it was twenty-eight. I checked later, and she was dead on." A pause. "That's it."

"She gave it in Celsius? Where's she from, you think? Who uses metric in this country? Besides soda bottlers."

"Scientists," Caitlin said. "Medical personnel. Soldiers. Sis…"

"Bobby? What about you?" Roxanne said quickly.

"I've seen her misuse slang too, like she's heard it but doesn't really understand it. She poked her head in my room last night and said my playing loosened her thighs."

Another snort from Roxanne. "_Bobby_."

"She said it like she was talking about the weather. You knew she didn't understand what she was saying. But that's not the big thing. Since we got here, we haven't slept all that well, and we've been keeping strange hours. Somebody's up almost any time. Has anybody caught Anna sleeping in her room, or sacked out on the couch at three AM? It's like you said, Rox: she never sleeps. And that's not all. Since we've been here, she's cooked enough food for an army. Has anybody seen her eat? Even a sample taste while she's cooking?"

"I can't say I've noticed," Roxanne said thoughtfully. "She sure never eats with us."

"Not even at a restaurant she took me to," Kat agreed. "She sipped water and watched the crowd. She said she only eats when she's hungry. Any conclusions?"

"Even Gens got to eat." A patting sound. "And she must eat sometime, cuz she sure knows how to cook. Everything she sets on the table looks like a picture in a magazine. But I think Rox is right. She's a lab rat, something different. I think somebody should talk to her. She wants us to trust her, maybe she should play straight with us." A pause. "One of us, anyway."

"Well, don't look at _me_."

"Rox, you're the last person we'd send. Why would she talk to you? Send Bobby. She's crushing on him, I think. Like I said, she's singing his song down there."

"Bobby?"

"Yeah. But not now. I don't want her to think I'm doing it cuz we had a meeting and I drew the short straw. Let's break this up, and I'll do it first thing in the morning."

When Bobby entered the kitchen three hours later, he found Anna in uniform, sitting at the table with a plate in front of her, a coffee cup held loosely in her hand. She glanced up. "Well. I didn't expect you up so early." She started to rise.

He held a hand out, palm down. "Sit. Jeez. What are you doing?"

"I try to do breakfast before you guys are up. It's unprofessional to eat with your clients. Besides, I can't take care of things while I'm stuffing my mouth. You want breakfast?"

"Cereal. I'll get it myself. Kick back a little, will you?" The relief on his face faded to a blank mask as he looked down at her half-empty coffee cup and her plate, empty except for a sprinkling of toast crumbs. As he put together the bowl and cereal and milk, he glanced at the coffee maker, its pot nearly full of fresh coffee. He brought his breakfast to the seat next to hers and set it on the table, but didn't sit. "Drink it black?"

"Yes." She smiled. "Just like your father."

"Warmup?"

"No, thanks. I'm done."

He took her cup from her fingers and headed towards the counter. But instead of pouring it into the sink, he took the pot from the coffee maker. He watched her watch him as he poured the cup back into the pot, bringing it to the full mark.

"I started out with yesterday's coffee" she said. "I heated it in the microwave."

"Uh huh." He glanced at the toaster. "There aren't any crumbs in the pan. Are there?"

"Well, of course not. I clean it after I use it."

"And if I put my hand on it, you'll tell me it's cold because you made your toast half an hour ago. And you've been sitting there with your coffee ever since. Even though it's still hot." She opened her mouth to speak, and he raised a hand to stop her. "I'm sure you have a perfect explanation." At that moment, the boy looked much older, and stern. He looked disturbingly like his father. He returned to the table and sat, his eyes never leaving her. He slid the bowl over to her, pushing the plate aside.

"I don't want it, Bobby. I'm full."

He regarded her silently for a moment. Then he said, "How good is your hearing, Anna?"

"As good as anybody's, I suppose. Oh, all right." She picked up the spoon and shoveled a couple of bites in; she chewed and swallowed. "Hate cereal," she muttered. She took another spoonful. "What exactly are we doing here?"

"I'm not sure," he said. "I'm just starting to think you need some taking care of, too. Finish it up."

"I can't, Bobby. I really am full."

"Two more bites," he said, coaxing her like a child. "You can do it."

She did as he asked. "I'm stuffed. Come on, give me a break here. I already had one breakfast." She glanced down at herself. "How much do you think I eat? I can't keep up with you guys. Not even Roxanne, and she eats like a canary."

"Okay." He nodded, giving her a strange look. "You know, with him gone, I don't think we would have stuck around, except for you. You've been pampering and mothering us since we pulled the car in the garage. I feel like I've known you a lot longer than a day and a half. But I don't know you at all, really, do I?"

"Bobby." She stared down into the bowl. "I can't tell you. Please don't ask. Give me a little trust. All I want is to do right by you, but I can't satisfy your curiosity. Not yet, anyway. Wait until your father gets home."

"'Wait until your father gets home.' The last house where they used to say that, things didn't go so well for me. I usually heard it right before the padlock clicked shut on my bedroom door. _What does he want with me, Anna?_"

"He wants to be your father, Bobby. That's all. It's all he ever wanted with you. But he's never been a father. You disappeared too soon. He's just trying to give you what you need. He hasn't done such a bad job so far, I think. And he'll get better with practice, if you'll let him."

"Why did he take sixteen years to find me?"

"I don't know. If you'll accept a guess, it's because your mother hid you, from people with more resources to search for you than your father had."

"IO."

"Yes. I'm sure it's no accident that he discovered you through them." She looked up at him. "And as soon as he did, he moved. No hesitation. He prepared to throw away his career and make enemies of some very powerful people, to get you free and bring you here safe."

He exhaled heavily. "And what is he to you, Anna? Tell me that much."

She stood. "Before you kids came here? Absolutely everything."

"You love him, then?"

She took the bowl to the sink and dumped the contents down the disposer. "I'm not sure I know the meaning of the word. But I feel very close to him sometimes. And I owe him more than I can possibly repay. Do you want some breakfast, really?"

After she had him shoveling eggs into his mouth, she headed for the bathroom.

For deception, Anna's design allowed her to take in a small amount of food and non-water liquids, but her 'digestive' system consisted of a short length of tubing and an elastic reservoir. The entire arrangement ended thirty centimeters below her chin. Anything that went into it had to come out the same way.

She triggered a purge of the system and directed the contents of her 'stomach' into the toilet. Then she drank a glass of water, channeling it into her food reservoir rather than her functional one, and ejected it again, to flush the system. The second and last time she did this, she heard footsteps approaching the bathroom, and a soft tap on the door. "Anna?" Kat's voice. "You okay in there?"

She wiped her mouth on a towel. "Fine, hon. Be out in a sec." She flushed the toilet, rinsed and dried her hands, and opened the door. The big redhead was waiting for her, wearing the more modest of her two suits. "Did you want some breakfast?"

"No thanks. Think it'd be safe to take a swim in the ocean?"

"I don't know. If I were you, I'd wait until Mr. Lynch has a chance to reconnoiter, and find out what measures IO is taking to locate you. Just lie low a little longer, hon."

"Okay. I'll just hit the pool then, before anybody else is up."

"Hon, the boys aren't giving you a hard time, are they?"

"No." Embarrassed, she added, "Either I'm going completely nuts, or people are walking the beach just to stare at the back of the house."

"Would one of those people be a middle-aged woman with a dog?"

"Yes. You know her?"

"She's our neighbor, the one I catered for last night."

"Oh. Does her husband walk the beach too?"

"She's widowed. Describe the man."

"Forty to forty-five, I think. Dark complexion, Middle Eastern maybe. Medium height, thin features, bald on top. Pot bellied. Black mustache."

"Sounds like Mr. Rafiq, our neighbor from across the street. You probably want to stay away from him."

"Cop?"

"Womanizer. His wife divorced him for it. He's been crossing the street to chat when he sees me working in the flower bed out front. And he tried to invite himself into the house once, when Mr. Lynch was away. Anyone else?"

"No one I've seen more than once."

"These little gated communities are like small towns. Everybody knows everybody else, even if they don't socialize, and they're curious about newcomers. Once you've been here a while, the interest will slack off." Good surveillance wouldn't let the subject see the same tail twice, but she decided not to mention it. Anyone who tried to approach the house from the beach would trip the security and alert her, but long-range observation from the beach or the water was still a weak spot in their perimeter.

When she returned to the kitchen, Roxanne was at the table, apparently dressed in what she'd worn to bed, slicing fruit. To Anna, it looked like the girl was sure to cut herself; she didn't seem to be giving the task her full attention. "Here, sweetheart, let me do that. How did you sleep last night?"

"Better. Ashamed to admit it. Thanks for the night light."_ Still grumpy, but better than yesterday. Fewer fatigue poisons coming out of her pores, too._

She smiled as she swiftly applied the knife. "And where did Mr. Bear sleep last night?"

Roxanne smiled back. "Right under her chin."

She shoved the plate of cut fruit towards the girl. "Start on this. What else would you like? The pantry's full."

"Just coffee. This is good. Kat and Eddie'll empty the cupboards soon enough."

"Kat skipped breakfast. She went for a swim."

"She's just scared somebody'll see her in that two-piece. She'll be starving as soon as she comes out of the water."

"Good to know. What will she want?"

"Everything. She eats like a pig." She took a bite and chewed carefully, swallowed. "Is Bobby up?"

"Yes."

"Did you talk to him?"

"Yes. I presume you kids have been talking." She lowered her voice. "I'm equally sure you didn't tell all you might have. Thank you, Roxanne."

"I made you a promise. I don't like breaking promises."

_Promises are different from deals, apparently. _"Neither do I. but I don't want you getting caught in the middle of anything." She tried to inject the proper amount of apprehension into her voice. "If there comes a time when you think one of the others has to know… well, try to talk to me first, okay? I'd just rather not get taken by surprise."

The girl nodded. "Think I'll take this into my room while I change."

III

Eddie breathed deep, trying to turn his focus inward. He'd come out to the pool for some early morning sunshine and a little isolation to perform a kata, trying to establish a morning ritual. Katas were perfect for that. People who didn't understand martial arts saw all that jumping and flailing and couldn't believe it was a way to attain inner balance. But doing a kata correctly meant doing it perfectly, and that took concentration. It also took an intimate knowledge of your physical capabilities, and his growing body introduced subtle changes to his reach and strength every day, making his practice an exploration as well as a ritual. By the time he was done, he'd be loose and warm and one with himself, ready for the day.

But today, the inner focus just wasn't coming. He was too distracted. One distraction was the smell of something baking in Anna's kitchen, making his stomach growl with every inhale. That was a minor distraction. The major one was swimming laps in the pool, eight feet away.

Kat was churning up the water pretty good as she plowed back and forth, cutting the visibility under the surface. But he was seeing plenty of that fine booty and those mile-long legs as she passed by, and when she reached the end of the pool, she stood and turned instead of flipping, which gave him regular glimpses of everything else on the shelves of her candy store.

She reached the end of the pool again and turned for another lap. But she glanced up at him and dogpaddled over to his side of the pool. _Busted._

She rested her forearms on the edge of the pool and looked up. "Does all the splashing bother you? I can stop."

Three clever answers popped into his head, one after the other; he forced them away while she waited, a polite smile on her lips. He felt like he was on thin ice with Kat. He could tell she looked sideways on his relationship with her younger sister. She'd been drugged and taken downstairs before he'd made it with Natalie, but she could have heard about it from someone after they were freed, before they all split up. She'd been awfully cool to him the whole trip to La Jolla, and had only thawed since the towel fight yesterday. Clearly she wasn't as ready to give him the benefit of the doubt as Rox was. He couldn't think of a better way to lower Kat's thermostat than with some halfwit remark or lame come-on line. Finally, he said, "My mind's wandering anyway. I was thinking about the changes we've been through since our last day of classes."

"'Changes.' Which part? The part where we found out we were born on Krypton, or the part where we got introduced to the Matrix?"

"Heh. Does feel that way. Watching Bobby light matches by staring at em would creep anybody out."

She gave him a strange look. "What creeps me out is the way you waltzed out of your cell. How did you do it? The rest of us were half crazy after a few days. You came out as if you'd spent the weekend in a cheap hotel."

He gave her a lopsided grin. "Being locked up naked in a room full of mirrors isn't my idea of torture. Any time I was near the meal slot when it opened, I'd face the wall and… waggle."

Kat snorted and grinned back. It was good to see; Kat in a good mood put everybody in a good mood, and there were still too many dark thoughts floating through people's heads around here.

He threw a quick series of shadow punches. "Seriously, being alone with my thoughts for a few days was no problem. I have a rich inner life."

"I'll bet."

"Do. You know about my trick memory. It gives you a lot of things to do inside your own head. You can re-read any book you've ever read, for starters. Ditto any TV show or movie." _Or compare any two chicks I've ever seen as if they were standing side by side, for a primo game of "Which One Would You Rather Do?"_

He spun and kicked at air, five feet off the ground. "Actually, the cell kind of reminded me of the final set in one of my favorite movies." He grinned. "_Enter the Dragon_. I spent a day in there running through every move Bruce did in that flick."

"So you distracted yourself for four days. Kept busy. Didn't think about it."

"Didn't say _that_, Red. I was totally pissed, most of the time. But I channeled it into something constructive." He did a couple of wheels and blocks; not really a kata, just moving around while he thought, kind of high-energy pacing. "I practiced, and figured out where the door was, and kept an eye on it while I tried to figure a way to make someone come into my cell. I figured we were all prisoners, and I hoped you were close by so I could spring you. Not much of a plan, but preparing the best I could kept me from worrying too much." He stopped and looked down at her. "Ignorance is bliss. If I'd known what they were doing to Rox, I'd have been bouncing off the walls."

Besides being probably true, it was the right thing to say. One look into Kat's eyes proved it. "Me too. Sarah said she came out on Mr. Lynch's arm like a cripple. She looked like she'd just got the beating of her life."

"Speaking of which," he said, changing the uncomfortable subject, "is the L-man a one-man army, or what? I'm good, Kat. I've won tournaments against guys with years on me. And I was wound tight, after days of practice and waiting for that door to open. I sprang like a bear trap when he stepped in. But he was waiting for me, like he knew what I was going to do before I did it. He comes back, I want to start sparring with him."

"Sounds like you're planning to stay."

"C'mon, Red. It's just you and me now. We're not going anywhere. How long would we make it on our own? I bet it takes skill to hide from IO. Like I said, I'm not bringing this trouble to my folks. Mr. Lynch has the money and the know-how."

"You trust them?"

"I think they have more than one motive for what they're doing, and a hidden agenda. But it doesn't change anything. They're helping us, for whatever reason, and they intend to do right by us. That's all they need to earn my trust. If I never learn what else they're up to, I couldn't care less."

"Speaking of secrets. I wonder about my dad. Where he is, if he's alive. And how much Mom knew."

"You think he kept his Gen a secret from her?"

"I don't know. I was thinking about him and Roxy's mom, actually. The divorce date about matches."

"Ew. Maybe you can ask one of them someday."

"Eddie, do you wonder where your parents are?"

"I know where they are."

"Your real ones, I mean."

"Yeah. My real ones. Kat, I'm sure my sire and dam gave me up for a good reason, and maybe it broke their hearts to do it. I got nothing to be hurt about, and I hope they're okay. But they're strangers. My real mom and dad are the people who raised me." He grinned down at her. "You know the old story about the kid who finds out he's adopted? And he's all bummed about it, thinking he wasn't wanted, until his adoptive parents sit him down for a heart-to-heart and tell him, 'We wanted you. We chose you.'"

"Is that what your folks did?"

"They never had to. They're white."

"Oh. But your name is Chang."

"That's what was on the birth certificate. When they adopted me, they decided to keep the name my birth parents gave me. Only thing they ever did that I can bitch about." He looked out towards the ocean. "I'm the only rich kid in our bunch. Bobby doesn't count, he didn't grow up with money. My folks aren't this rich, but they make plenty of coin. We have a housekeeper and a gardener. Dad's a bigwig at the medical center, and Mom's an anesthesiologist. At home, I had a room of my own, and another for my toys. They're not trying to buy me or anything, they just love giving me stuff. They usually put in sixty-hour weeks. But at least one of them was in the crowd at every soccer game or school play or karate tournament. Dad takes me on weekend trips three or four times a year. I never went through what Bobby did, or Rox. I always had a mom and dad who made sure I knew I was wanted and loved." He glanced down the beach. "We've got company."

Kat rose a few inches out of the water for a better look. "The dog lady again. Anna says she's our neighbor."

"Well, the mutt doesn't act like it walks the beach every day." The shin-high, pointy-nosed furball was straining at the end of its leash, going from side to side until it was brought up short. The woman was hanging on to the leash with both hands as she peered up at the house. He waved, and Kat did the same. Automatically, the woman took one hand off the leash to wave back, and the dog yanked free, running in a zigzag path down the beach. She power walked after it, calling, "Vicious! Vicious!"

"Hm. His name, do you think, or is she warning bystanders?" Kat climbed out of the pool, and he tried not to stare too obviously as she toweled off. He needn't have bothered; she might be modest for her own sake, but Kat seemed totally clueless about her effect on men. He was sure it would get her in deep trouble someday.

After she left, he decided he wouldn't be getting his head in gear for a decent kata, and decided to settle for some breathing exercises. Instead of turning his focus inward and shutting out all distractions, he closed his eyes and turned outward, losing himself in his surroundings. He smelled the fragrances from the garden, his suntan oil, and the smell of the sea. He heard the small sounds of birds, the strident cries of gulls, and the hiss of the surf. He felt the sun on his upturned face, the soft breeze.

He felt the pavement under his bare feet: its rough pebbled surface, the trace of grit. It felt odd, as if he was sinking into it a little, as if it were hard-packed sand instead of stone. No, that wasn't right. It was as if his awareness of it was penetrating the surface into what was beneath. He became aware of concrete as an amalgam, glimpsed unthought-of complexities of its structure. He felt the tiny pockets of water and air that leavened it; felt the age of the rocks that the cement held together.

Years ago, he had read an old science fiction novel about this dude who'd been raised from a baby by aliens with weird powers and amazing mental disciplines. One of the things they'd taught him was how to study something so thoroughly that it became a part of you, and you a part of it.

"Grokking," he said with a smile. "I grok concrete. Weird." He opened his eyes and looked down.

His feet were grayish-white and pebbled. Concrete.

Reflex took over. He backflipped off the pool apron, landing on his back in the flower bed with his feet in the air. The panic subsided when he realized he could still _feel _his feet.

He wiggled his toes. They felt fine, and they were just as flexible as ever, but they looked like concrete. _Some chameleon effect._ He touched one foot with his hand. It felt like concrete. He rapped it with his knuckles, and it felt like knocking on a patio slab. He tapped the sides of his feet together gently, and got a weird result: he felt his feet hitting together, as normal as could be, but at the same time, it felt the way it would if he'd taken two chunks of concrete in his hands and tapped them together. He decided not to hit them together too hard; he wouldn't want to chip anything off.

Using his hands to help, he bent one foot up towards his face and examined it closely. He saw that the change was gradual, without a sharp terminator. As his eyes traveled down his leg from calf to heel, he noted how the skin took on a gray-white color as the hairs on his leg shortened and disappeared, and finally, below the ankle, the appearance of the rough and pebbled surface that exactly matched the pad around the pool. He looked closer, and watched normal color return up near his calf, saw the pebbled skin around his ankle smoothing out. Five minutes later, his feet were back to normal._ The effect isn't permanent. Whew._

He got up and stepped back to the patio. He thought about that sinking-in sensation he'd experienced, and felt it return. _It's like hypnosis. The more often you do it, the easier it gets. _He looked down. His feet were grayish white. He willed the sensation away, and watched the color return to his skin.

He decided to try another experiment. The deck chairs consisted of an aluminum tube framework with a wood decking; cypress, he thought. He touched the frame, felt himself sink into it. He felt the metal's softness and density and conductivity, tasted the other elements that went into the alloy. His hand took on a dull silvery sheen. He tapped his knuckles against the frame and heard a dull clink. Then he touched the chair's wood decking and got a surprise. The cellulose was easy enough to grok, but the wood's fibrous cellular structure was more complex than anything he'd yet attempted, and he couldn't duplicate it. His hand looked like plastic fashioned to look like wood.

_I don't know enough._

It was a novel experience. Since he was a little kid, school had mostly been a breeze. The teachers and counselors had called him "gifted." He figured they simply had no idea how much schoolwork was just memorization.

To him, subjects like History and Lit were no-brainers; he read the textbooks the first week and never opened them again. He could sit in class writing term papers in his head while the teacher droned on, straight from the book he'd read a month before. And every test was an open-book exam for him.

Skull sweat subjects, like math and some science courses, sometimes required you to understand and think about the material, not just disgorge the textbook on command. But his photographic memory still gave him a big leg up. He was never stuck for an axiom, for example, or the proper formula. Some of his math teachers had gone lazy putting together quizzes and tests, and had used problems from the textbook that had the answers in the back; that meant he had the answer key to every one of them in his head. Looking for bargain comics at a garage sale, he'd come across a really old math text that had log and trig tables in the back. He'd memorized the tables as fast as he could turn the pages, and now he could do heavy math problems in his head faster than most people could punch them in on a calculator.

But he wasn't some frickin egghead; he was just a guy who never forgot what he saw or read. And the teachers and counselors weren't going to turn him into a geek with "advanced classes" and a "more challenging curriculum." Over his dead body. He liked being an average kid who didn't have to work hard in school, with normal friends who didn't build cyclotrons in their basements. He wasn't about to spend all his time in school watching over his shoulder for the losers looking for someone to blame their D averages on. He kept an A minus average, acceptable to the crowd he ran with and good enough to keep his parents off his back. He never aced a test unless somebody else was sure to. He didn't excel at _anything_ academically, and finished his freshman year in high school no higher than the top ten percent. He'd had it all figured out, and life was good.

Then, despite all his hard work, Darwin Academy had come calling, and his parents had been thrilled to apply for him.

Normally, he would have just thrown the entrance exam. He routinely massaged his scores on aptitude tests; it was easy, when you knew almost exactly how many right and wrong answers you were putting down. But the Academy's marathon quiz was different. Too many of the questions were un-academic, almost like a psych test; a lot of them didn't seem to _have_ a right answer. But he knew he didn't want to get shipped off to some nerd academy, so he did his best.

His best wasn't good enough. He'd been accepted. He'd had to go through all his possessions and decide what was important enough to put in his backpack for the trip to Darwin. He'd got on the plane feeling like a draftee. Or a new convict.

But Darwin had been fun, right up until it turned nasty. The kids were cool, mostly easy to get along with, with normal attitudes and interests. The curriculum and the teachers actually made you think. High marks didn't draw fire from anyone; _everybody_ got high marks, even the jocks. The pod system of class structure seemed to make a point of throwing disparate types together. Geeks were a tiny but respected minority. Everybody got along, and social groups formed and re-formed without snubbing anybody. He could hang with anybody he wanted without worrying about keeping his head down. Pretty amazing, really.

But not as amazing as the chicks. They were all hot, not a bowwow in the bunch, and since all the kids were new to school and each other, they were mostly unattached. There were plenty to go around; shoot, he had two to pick from in his own pod, sisters no less. He was hunting in a wildlife preserve.

Every day at Darwin had been an adventure. But he'd never felt out of his depth, immersed in a mystery beyond his understanding, even in the cell. Until now.

The Eastern philosophies woven into martial arts had taught him to expand his consciousness. He'd heard, more than once, about "seeing the universe in a grain of sand." He was feeling something like that now. The longer he held on to that slat of wood, the more things he sensed about it, and he struggled to identify them, make sense of them. He had an inkling of the tree's transport mechanism now, and could identify a lot of what it was made of: carbon, oxygen, all kinds of complex chemicals whose purposes still eluded him. He studied the input a little longer, then withdrew his hand. A woodgrain pattern had appeared in it; it looked pretty real now, actually. His understanding was growing.

He walked through the area, just touching things: pool tools, furniture, soil. After a while, he could tell whether he was touching plastic or wood or fiberglass with his eyes closed; each of them "tasted" different after just a moment's contact. He could easily tell artificial stuff like plastic from, say, leaves. It felt like being able to see in more than three dimensions.

He decided he'd had enough for a while. The smells from the kitchen were making his stomach growl again, reminding him of hungers not intellectual. He rounded the pool, headed for the door.

III

"Hon, what's that you're doing?"

Caitlin continued to click keys, her pastry forgotten on a small plate beside her on the counter. "Checking out this computer." The little workstation in the kitchen was so snug she had to tuck her feet under her chair. "This is so weird."

Anna stood behind her chair and looked over her shoulder. "Is there something wrong with it? It seems to be working."

"It's working, all right." She turned her head to look over her shoulder at the little housekeeper. "What do you know about computers?"

"Almost nothing. I've never used one."

"You're kidding."

"Nope. What's so weird about this one?"

She tapped the case. "According to this, it's a ten-year-old Dell. That's about seven generations in computer tech. Compared to what's out on the market now, this model's a museum piece. It's still useful in the kitchen, for storing recipes and printing schedules and such. But there's hardly any point hooking it up to the Internet, and most new software won't run on it; it just doesn't have the capability. Except…"

"Except?"

"I walked past it half a dozen times before I noticed. There's a USB2 port on the front, and a DVD drive. They shouldn't be there, not on a platform this old. So I fired it up and checked its specs. The hardware's been upgraded, extensively, right up to present generation. The motherboard's probably new, too. The fan and the case may be all that's left of the original computer." She shook her head. "It doesn't make any sense. Why sink this kind of money into an old unit, when you can buy a new one for half as much?"

"I can think of a few reasons. Perhaps the case is a disguise." She smiled. "So that someone might pass it by without recognizing it for what it really is. Or perhaps it has sentimental value, and he preferred to preserve its utility with upgrades instead of replacing it."

The girl turned her head again, to look at Anna. "Sentiment. For a computer."

The little housekeeper returned her look. "Couldn't you feel affection towards a dependable machine that served you loyally?"

"I suppose." She turned back to the screen.

Anna rested her hand on the computer's case. "I'm just imagining the poor unloved thing tossed on some trash heap." Her voice was quiet, distant. "Or sitting in some dark, dusty storage space, maybe for years, waiting to be destroyed."

Kat was studying a list on the display. "Anna," she said absently, "it's just a machine. It doesn't have feelings. Hm. It's even got DSL."

Anna moved back to the oven. "Sure. My imagination's running away with me, I suppose."

III

Eddie stepped through the kitchen door, blissful. The smell of baking had been tantalizing from outside; in here, it filled the air. Anna smiled at him. She was cradling a huge mixing bowl in her arm, stirring some mixture with a spoon. She had a tiny smudge of it on her cheek. She looked adorable. He smiled back. "Smells great. What's cooking?"

"Cinnamon rolls. Nut bread. I'm thinking of baking a chocolate cake while the oven's warm."

"I like the way you think. They coming out soon? Seems like I've been smelling them all morning."

"This is the second batch. The first one... well, Roxanne was right about Kat being hungry after her swim." She nodded towards the corner, and he turned to follow her gaze.

"Oh, God, she's found one," he moaned. "We'll never see her at the pool again."

"What's wrong?"

"Computers. Her only love. Junior high science projects. President of the computer club in high school. Computer science major in college. She's a pint-sized computer geek trapped in a pinup girl's body. Right now, you're looking at the _real_Caitlin Fairchild." He didn't bother to lower his voice; Kat's eyes never left the screen, and her fingers fluttered over the keyboard without a pause. "She doesn't even know I'm here. I've seen her sit at one of those until her legs fall asleep and she falls over when she gets up. Hilarious. Hey, Kat."

"Hmm?" She never looked up.

"After breakfast, wanna go skinny-dipping with Bobby and me?"

"Mmm hmm."

"Then maybe you could come to our room for a little while before you get dressed, and we'll all party."

"Kay. Lemme finish this." She made half a dozen keystrokes in two seconds and turned to him. "What, now?"

"I said, you gonna eat that last roll?"

"Oh. Yeah." She picked it up absently and took a bite. "Oh. Did you want it?"

"Neh." He grinned. "I'll wait for the next batch."

"Kay." She set it back down on the plate and resumed typing.

He turned to Anna, expecting to see her grinning too. But her eyebrows were gathered, her expression troubled. "Eddie, why did you call her 'Caitlin'?"

"It's her real name. 'Kat' is just a nickname. Sarah's the only one who calls her 'Caitlin' all the time."

"Like 'Rox' or 'Roxy,' for Roxanne."

"Yeah," he said cautiously, wondering about her again.

"Is 'Eddie' a nickname?"

"Short for Edmund, my middle name." He grinned at her. "If you want to stay friends, you'll never use my first."

Again, her reaction was unexpected. She gave him a look so direct and penetrating, he could imagine he was being CAT scanned. "Are we friends, Eddie?"

There was nothing lost-puppyish about her voice; she might have been asking if he knew his shoe was untied. But he thought of the way the group had been dissing her, like she was a lunatic or a stray dog that was acting weird, and got a case of guilts. "Sure we are. We're friends, Anna."

She nodded. "Good. Thought so. I know I'm your friend, but I wasn't sure you were mine. The rolls should be out in five minutes. Then they need to cool a little before I ice them. Would you like something while you wait?"

He sat at the table. "Did you find my snack cakes at the store?"

"Yes." She lifted her lip. "But I'd rather not get them again. Or serve them, for that matter."

"Why?" But he suspected the answer.

"Because they're not food."

"What are you talking about? Of _course_ they're food." _Is this how Rox sounded, just before the hammer dropped?_

"No. Food is something that provides your body with nutrients and fuel, and gives your digestive system some healthy exercise." She set the bowl on the counter, pulled a cellophane-wrapped snack cake out of the cupboard, and held it in her hand, looking at it. "This is… whatever it is. But it's not food."

He shifted in his seat. "Anna, _please_ tell me you're not a health nut."

She transferred her interest from the cake to him. "Your body's a marvel, Eddie."

"Thanks." He leaned back and put his hands behind his head. "I try to stay in shape."

She smiled. "I mean in general, you peacock." She got serious again. "It's the product of a thousand generations of evolutionary design and re-design. No machine ever built," she said with heavy emphasis, "can match its complexity. Some scientists argue that it's needlessly complex, that evolution's an inefficient method for introducing improvements. But since even the experts don't know all that the human body's capable of, I'd say they're not qualified to offer an opinion. It has layers upon layers of linked subsystems and interdependent processes. You could write a book detailing just the mechanisms that regulate your breathing while you sleep. Eddie, have you ever visited a refinery? Or just driven by?"

He nodded. It had been pretty impressive: all those round tanks, large and small, scattered to the horizon; the square ponds full of who knew what; the buildings and control centers and what looked to be about a million miles of pipes running everywhere.

"Turning a barrel of oil into a hundred useful products is not one bit more complex than what happens when you take a bite out of a ham sandwich and bolt it down. And refinery technicians analyze that barrel of oil _exhaustively_ before they introduce it to their system, because crude oil isn't all the same, and what you put in affects what your process produces." She tossed the wrapped package to him. "Tell you what. Just read the list of ingredients out loud, correctly pronounced, in under a minute, and I'll say no more."

The ingredients list covered most of the underside of the package. And photographic memory wasn't going to make some of the chemical names easier to pronounce. He didn't even try. "Anna, the FDA checks all this stuff out."

"Yes. So we can be fairly certain none of it will kill you within a couple of years, or give rats cancer."

"The testing's better than that."

"Tell it to the people who took Vioxx and Thalidomide."

"They haven't proved that stuff about Vioxx yet."

"Not in court. It's possible they never will. The pharmaceutical industry hires excellent lawyers. But they'll take it off the market anyway, and that's proof enough."

"But those are drugs."

"There's a reason the same government agency oversees food _and_ drugs. Pharmaceuticals and your snack cakes have a lot in common: they're wholly artificial substances introduced into the human body, which isn't adapted by evolution to receive them. Almost all of them produce effects besides the desired ones. At least the pharmaceuticals are intended to be beneficial." She sat next to him and pulled the package between them, with the list of ingredients facing up. "Do you know why _half_ this stuff is in here?"

"Well, the sugar's for taste."

"Why are there four different kinds?"

He had no idea. He shrugged.

"Some of it _is_ for flavor. Rather, to mask the real taste; you wouldn't let it near your mouth if it wasn't sweetened. Sugar's also necessary as a binder, an edible glue to hold it all together. Another reason they use sugar is to dilute another ingredient so it mixes easier." She tapped the panel lightly with a fingernail. "What about this one, with the long chemical name?"

"Don't know. There must be _some_ reason."

"Indeed there is. It's an air-entraining agent, just like the one they put in concrete to keep it from cracking in cold weather. It's in your snack cake because it's cheaper than yeast." She pointed to one after another. "This one acts as a lubricant, to keep the batter from gumming up the automated mixing machines. This one enables the whole concoction to be baked at a much lower temperature, making it cheaper to produce. This one is a stabilizing agent; without it, that creamy filling would look like snot a week after it was injected into the cake." She pushed it away. "What's in that package is a product, an assembly, no less than a sheet of plywood. It's constructed and packaged to resemble food, and it's edible. And that's all. Tell me. Which do you like better – chocolate chip cookies from a bag, or from my oven?"

"You kidding? Your cookies are great."

"So's my chocolate cake. Eddie, I promise you'll never run out of cupcakes if you let me throw these away. They're not good for you, and I don't trust them."

It sounded like a good deal, but he didn't want to cave in too easily. "What about those cinnamon rolls? Let's see the list of ingredients on the tube."

"There is no tube. They're from scratch."

"Get outta here!" He reached for her cheek and touched the dollop of icing smeared on it.

_Long-chain molecules. Carbon compounds. Polymers._

He grinned. "You little fibber. Your icing's straight out of a can. Or maybe a refinery." He wiped it away.

All the exotic materials he'd sensed disappeared. He rubbed the icing between thumb and forefinger, puzzled. He sensed sugar, he thought, and some other organic compounds. But all the weird plastic- feeling stuff was gone.

Anna sat still as a statue. No, more like a hunter in a blind, her mother-hen demeanor replaced by a strange watchfulness. Quietly, she said, "What is it, Eddie?" _But she isn't asking me why I'm acting strange. She's asking me how much I know._

She didn't move as he leaned forward and slowly stretched out his hand to touch her cheek again. _Non-organic, but complex. Dense and stretchy and… thinner than a sheet of paper. _Beneath it, he sensed a hexagonal grid of metallic objects no bigger than a pencil dot, each of them maybe a millimeter apart, connected by wires too fine to see with the naked eye, mounted on a superfine elastic mesh. Beneath it was another layer of different elastic, a mounting surface, he thought.

They locked eyes. He put his other hand in her hair. _Protein? Organic, anyway. Normal hair, I bet._

A sharp intake of breath behind him. _Rox._ He pulled his hands away. _Dammit. I must have looked like I was about to kiss her… or just did._

Anna said, "Perfect timing, sweetie. Eddie's just made a discovery, I think." Her eyes flicked to Kat, still clicking away, oblivious. "Can you two help me with something in the living room?" She stood, and so did he. He didn't think the shock of discovery accounted for the way he sort of floated out of the chair. Anna smiled at Roxy's shaken and narrowing face. "Trust each other, you two. If you don't, you'll feel like fools five minutes from now." He felt the tile pressing against his feet again.

In the living room, she turned to him. "How did you know? Gen?"

He nodded. "Something new. I can touch stuff and get a good idea what it's made of. Even if it looks like something else."

"Grunge, what are you talking about? What were you doing, if you weren't…"

He reached for her and did the same thing: one hand to her cheek, the other in her hair. The hair was essentially the same, just differently flavored, especially the purple streaks. Her cheek was a sort of smooth, protein-rich bark. He felt a fine coating of artificial compounds: makeup. He sensed capillaries and discerned pores. A living, breathing organism, totally different from Anna's skin.

He realized Rox's eyes were closed and her lips were parted, waiting.

"Well, go _on_, stud," Anna said. "I won't look."

Roxy's eyes snapped open, staring. She pulled away. "What's going on?"

"Tell her, Eddie."

He cleared his throat with a cough. "She's not real."

Anna blinked. "Well, _that's_ not what I was expecting."

"Her skin's not real, I mean. Not organic. Artificial. An imitation."

"I think the word you want is 'prosthetic.'"

He looked at her. "Those little dot thingies underneath. Sensors? Like, for heat and pressure? Pain sensors? It's got different layers, like a sandwich. Or composite armor."

"It's a good guess. I really don't know. But it's tough and heat-resistant, and I don't think I feel pain the way you do." She pressed a finger into her palm and looked at Rox.

"Are you like that all over?"

"Probably." The corner of Anna's mouth lifted. "I don't suggest you try to find out."

"Anna." Rox looked a little shocky. "They _skinned_ you? And replaced it with _that_? _Why?_" Unspoken but clear were the words: _They skinned you alive? How did you live through it?_

"I don't know. As far as I know, I've always been this way. If I had some kind of surgery, that memory's gone too."

It was his turn to be confused. "Gone?"

The little housekeeper turned away. "Could you tell it, sweetie? I just don't feel up to it. Besides, I've got to take my rolls out." She paused at the door. "I don't feel entirely well. I'm going to my room afterwards."

III

Anna locked her bedroom door behind her, stripped off her clothes, and studied her reflection in the mirrored sliding closet door.

_Not real._

_I don't resemble the pictures in Eddie's books as closely as Caitlin does, but everything's there. And variation between body types is wide. Roxanne said we look alike, and he thinks she's real. If I'm not supposed to be real, why did they go to so much trouble?_ _The ones who held me. Gave me orders. Tested me._

"Made me," she whispered. It was the first time she'd spoken to herself aloud. It was also the first time she'd faced her origin squarely. _It isn't just that I'm faster and stronger, have different senses, think differently. I'm not a mutation like these kids. I wasn't created the way other people are. I didn't grow. I was built._

_They must have built me for a reason. What did they want me to be, and how did I fail?_

She slid the mirrored door aside to reveal her nearly empty closet. Behind the first pole, with its modest assortment of slacks and shirts and plain dresses, lay a second, holding only three hangers: gray tee shirt, black utility vest, and a pair of urban-camo BDU pants, all shades of gray and black, all items clean and neat if rather faded. A pair of hunting boots sat on the floor against the back wall. She took the items out and dressed, then slid the door shut and studied her reflection.

_This is how I appeared to them. A little soldier. One that can kill with her bare hands, despite looking rather like a fifteen-year-old girl. Is that what they wanted? Why did they change their minds and shut me away?_

She heard stealthy footprints, several sets of them, outside her bedroom door. _They don't want anything from me; they don't want to disturb me at all. They're just checking on me._

"_I feel like I've known you a lot longer than a day and a half._ _I'm just starting to think you need some taking care of, too."_

"_Sometimes you find yourself attracted to the most unlikely person. We're friends, Anna."_

"_You were an experiment too. I thought we were going to be friends."_

_Trading happy smiles with Caitlin as they shopped for clothes._

_I knew I was bonding to them; subroutine after subroutine is linking directly to their input. Now I know they're bonding to me. But how can they, if they don't know who I am?_

A nearly noiseless knock on the door. "Anna?" Bobby's voice, almost whisper-soft. "You sleeping in there?"

"No, I'm changing." She pulled some out-of-the-house clothes off their hangers. "Do you need something?"

"No," he said, raising his voice. "I just wondered if you're okay."

"Thanks. I'm fine. I'll be out in a few."

The hallway was deserted when she stepped out of her room, but she could hear people sounds throughout the house: a chair scraping against the concrete by the pool, and a splash as a body entered the water; Caitlin's fingers still working the keyboard in the kitchen; the television in the living room. The house was never quiet to her, but these sounds indicated life and habitation, and seemed to change the house's character. _When I'm alone here, it's a structure, a machine. Now it's a nest._

She went through the bedrooms quickly, picking up and making the beds. Caitlin's was already made, her teddy bear sitting against a pillow. Roxanne's was strewn across the floor, along with her bedclothes and fruit plate and some evidence of a bedtime snack. Bobby's wasn't made, but his covers were pulled up neatly, as were Eddie's. Dusting and sweeping, she decided, could wait until she got back from her errand.

As she carried dishes to the dishwasher, she glanced toward her redheaded charge. The pastry plate still sat near at hand, but the pastry was gone; Anna wondered if the girl had finished it, or if someone had taken it without her noticing. She appeared to be studying a magazine displayed on the terminal. "Hon, what have you got there?"

"_Robotics Today. _No one's tried for the Sanagachi Prize yet. They raised the bar pretty high this time."

She looked over the girl's shoulder just as Caitlin touched the keys and another block of text appeared. "What now?"

"News services. No reports of a massacre in the Upper Peninsula, no rash of missing-persons cases. It's like we never existed. Or we're still there. Guess the people at the Academy found all our folks' e-mail addresses."

"Caitlin, can you teach me to use a computer? It seems I'm missing out on a valuable information source."

The girl turned to her. "Anna, if you know how, you can find out almost anything on the Net. How can you _not_ know how to run a computer? Every school has them."

"Home schooled."

"Ah." The girl's tone expressed a clear opinion about her housekeeper's curriculum. "Sure, I'll teach you. When?"

"Not now. I have an errand to run. After dinner, maybe?"

"Kay." She shut off the machine and stood, stretching. When she raised her arms, her knuckles brushed the ceiling.

"Next time I need something off the top shelf, I think I'll just ask you to fetch it down."

She brought her hands down. "Sure. Nice to know I went through all this for a good reason."

As Anna entered the garage, she glanced again at the car the kids had arrived in. _Stolen plates. Registered to a dead man, possibly. As soon as Mr. Lynch gets home, it's got to go._

Just as she was going to give the command to raise the garage door behind her vehicle, the mailbox mike picked up a car slowing to a stop in front of the house. Over the idling engine, she heard a man's voice: Rick, the morning-shift security guard. "Well? Do you recognize it?"

"I told you I've never been here." A girl's voice, sullen. "Why this… shakedown? I was just walking down the sidewalk. It's my color, isn't it?"

"Miss, my mother's Mexican. A third of the property owners here are black or Middle Eastern or Asiatic. You add in the domestics and other service types, including me, and most of the people who belong on this street aren't white. I know them all, and you're not one of them. I've been sitting halfway down the street watching you since you came in. You ducked under the gate, entered on foot, and bypassed the call box, ignoring the _big_ sign telling nonresidents to call upon entry. You're not dressed for the neighborhood, and there aren't many kids here anyway. The way you looked over the houses, I knew you'd never been here. And that bag you're carrying is too big for a purse and too small for luggage, but just the right size for concealing burglar tools or something small and valuable. _That's_ why the shakedown. Not having ID just clinches it."

The motor shut off, and the car door clicked open. "This is the Lynch place. If someone here can vouch for you, you'll get a sincere apology. If not, you're getting a ride downtown."

She raised the door behind the empty bay. Rick was walking down the drive with a girl wearing shorts and a tank top and carrying a denim backpack. Her upper arm was gripped tight in his big hand as he urged her along.

The girl was beautiful. A thick cascade of wavy jet-black hair flowed down the center of her back to her waist, bound by a lace of leather at the back of her head. Her figure was trim and athletic and compared favorably to the girls in Eddie's books, being the sort sometimes described as "hourglass"; despite being fifteen centimeters taller and ten kilos heavier than Anna, the girl's waist was no larger. Her dusky features were broad, almost Asiatic, with dark slanted eyes, heavily lashed, and full, pouty lips.

_Sarah. Bobby's lover._

Rick jerked his hand back from her arm, as if he'd touched something hot, or gotten a shock. His other hand moved to the billy club at his belt.

"Sarah." She stepped quickly down the drive to meet them. "Thank goodness you're here. We were getting worried. Thanks for bringing her in, Rick."

He rested the heel of his hand lightly on the club's handle as if he'd never meant to do anything else. He eyed the girl, who returned the appraisal, waiting. "My apologies, miss. Sorry to make you feel unwelcome. Won't happen again. I'll make sure the others know. Suggest you replace that lost ID as soon as possible, just the same. Anne, I wish I'd known you had company coming."

"I was taken by surprise too. Mr. Lynch's son is home from school, and he invited friends. Sarah's the last, and she's a little late." She reached for the girl's hand. "Come, dear. Everyone's here, and I think Bobby's by the pool. I'll show you your room, and then you can mingle. Are you hungry?" She looked past her to Rick. "Thanks again, Rick. Can you stop by in half an hour or so? I'll have something for you."

"You don't need to do that, Anne. It's my job."

"Which is why Mr. Lynch will insist. He values people who take their work seriously." She waved as she led Sarah into the garage and shut it behind them.

Sarah eyed the old four-door in the center bay. "I'm in the right place after all. When I got here, I wasn't sure." Her gaze shifted to Anna. "He didn't tell us he had a daughter."

"He doesn't. I'm Anna, the housekeeper. I know all about you."

Sarah raised her eyebrows. "What does that mean, exactly?"

"It means you don't have to watch your speech around me. I keep Mr. Lynch's secrets. The kids can tell you. How much of his runaway money did you spend?"

"Just enough for a few meals. I offered all my rides gas money, but there weren't any takers." Her lips thinned. "I think they were looking for some other compensation. I had to get out twice."

"Any other trouble on the road?"

The girl shrugged. "A few problems. There must be a crackdown on drunk drivers or some such. I came on two roadblocks where the police were checking IDs. Both times, I told the drivers I was underage, and they were glad to let me out beforehand, so I could travel cross country for a few miles. I presume they didn't tell the police they'd seen me. The first time I got tagged was right here." She looked at the closed garage door. "I thought about bribing him."

"Wouldn't have worked. He really does take his job seriously. Let me have it."

Sarah unzipped her pack and reached in, coming out with two packs of bills, one in a bank wrapper, the other rolled up and secured with a rubber band. "Where's your boss?"

Anna headed for the connecting door. "He went to the reservation, looking for you. He called to say you'd left, and IO had your family under surveillance. He stayed to safeguard them until they lost interest." She paused with her hand on the knob. "Sarah. You've seen how risky it is to leave the house without ID. Getting caught would be catastrophic for all of us. Promise me you won't leave the grounds until he gets back."

"All right."

"I mean it. _Promise_."

The girl's expression turned to mild amusement. "What makes you think my promise is worth anything?"

"I don't think Bobby could love a girl who didn't honor her word."

Sarah stilled. But she said, "Anna, I promise I won't leave the house without permission until I'm sure it's safe, or I'm leaving it for the last time. That's the best I can do."

"Not good enough." She held on to the knob. "I can't follow you around all the time to make sure you're still here. And if you leave after midnight, you'll set off alarms. At least promise me you'll tell me before you leave."

The girl shrugged. All right. I promise. If I decide to leave, I'll tell you first."

She turned the knob and led the way into the hall. "Bedrooms to the left. Your room is the first on the right. Bathroom's next door. Pick either bed. You've got the room to yourself. I'll tell the others you're here." She stopped. "Oh. _Are_ you hungry? I've just been to the store, but I can go out again, if you have special needs."

The girl eyed her darkly. "Are you asking me if you need to stock up on buffalo jerky or something?"

She returned the look without flinching. "I was thinking you might be diabetic, or lactose intolerant, or just plain picky."

The girl's look lightened. "I eat kosher when I have a choice, but I'm not fanatic about it. I eat a lot of fruits and vegetables."

"So does Roxanne. You'll find plenty in the kitchen, and I'll be starting lunch shortly. If you actually have a taste for buffalo jerky, or anything else, let me know, and I'll pick it up on my next trip to the store."

The kids' reunion seemed more wary than joyful. Eddie and Caitlin were particularly reserved towards the Indian girl. Bobby's outward reactions were tightly controlled; he tried to conceal his emotions and assume a casually friendly mien, but his heart rate increased twenty percent when she appeared at the pool, with an accompanying rise in temperature. Roxanne seemed happier to see her than Anna had expected. The girl-child wrapped her arms around the dark-haired beauty for a quick hug, then led her out the side door. "Don't think I'm switching my preference or anything. I'm just glad you're here safe." Then: "What do you think of Anna?"

The object of her question was in the kitchen, getting an early start on lunch and listening in; merely human ears would not have heard Roxanne's words, or the reply: "Classic control freak."

A giggle. "Isn't she _just_?" Anna heard Roxanne's fancy cigarette case snap open and shut, followed by the click of her lighter. "She caught me smoking in the garage yesterday and went berserk. Today she bought me a pack. Go figure. She's the strangest person. I don't know whether to like her or hate her or be afraid of her or sorry for her. But she's scary capable, and she thinks the sun rises and sets on Mr. Lynch."

"He's really at the reservation?"

"He didn't stay here five minutes when he found out you went there. He was scared, Sarah. He thinks you put your family in danger. He made Kat feel like dirt for letting you go."

"Well, that explains. But why does your boyfriend seem so disappointed to see me?"

"Don't know. You'll have to ask him."

"I think not. I'm hoping he'll snub me, so I can have some peace and quiet."

"She's gonna want to take you clothes shopping tomorrow, I bet. Try not to let her weird you out."

"Don't tell me she picked _that_."

"This? Gawd, no. You've seen what she wears. She's got no fashion sense at _all_. She'll tag along and make suggestions, but she'll pretty much let you pick your own stuff out. Just try to find something that doesn't get you stared at. Or not much. Ehhh, just find something."

"I don't dress to titillate, Roxanne. I wear what I like."

"And you just happen to like tight pants and bare midriffs and low necklines and… don't get me started. Just look at what girls your age are wearing before you buy, that's all."

A snort. "You sound like a mom. Not _my_ mom, but a mom."

The mailbox mike went live; once again, Anna picked up the sound of the security cruiser as it turned partway down the drive and stopped. She opened bay three and met him at the connecting door, standing on the bottom step, which almost brought them eye to eye.

She placed an envelope in his hand, but didn't let go of it. She smiled up into his eyes. "This is just a token. You know that. If you need anything, Rick, you can come to us."

He returned her look gravely. "Any of us would have done the same, Anne. I'll be splitting this three ways."

"Thought you'd say that." She produced two more envelopes, equally thick.

He looked down at them; even if the bills inside were fives, he knew he was holding a week's pay in each one. "Give me a dozen of those cookies and you can have mine back."

She slapped him on the shoulder, lightly. "I'm fresh out. Come by tomorrow, and I'll have a dozen boxed up and ready to go." She let her demeanor grow serious. "Rick. It means a lot to know you guys are on the job. Mr. Lynch is gone so much lately."

He looked at her with eyes full of understanding. She often monitored the guards' conversations over the radio and as they exchanged words at shift change. She knew that the security force thought that Mr. Lynch was a retired gangster, like the Riccis, the family who owned all three houses on the turnaround and had installed a second gate across the end of the road. She also knew that they thought Mr. Lynch was using his housekeeper for sex. She found both assumptions useful. "We know when he's gone, Anne. We keep a close eye on the house."

"Appreciate that. You just never know who might… drop in for a visit."

He nodded. "Speaking of which. Tell me about your houseguests, so we won't have a repeat of earlier."

"You can't miss Bobby. Imagine Mr. Lynch at sixteen, but blond. His friend Eddie is short, wide, and Oriental, about fifteen. Roxanne is about my size. Midnight black hair streaked with purple."

"Ech. God." He made a face.

"You won't say it when you see her. The last one is Caitlin, the redhead. I won't describe her. You'll recognize her the instant you see her. Sarah's a beauty, isn't she?"

He nodded. "You may have your hands full with her, I think."

"Rick, they're _all_like that." She flicked her eyes across the street towards her neighbor's house. "They've already attracted some undue attention. And foot traffic on the beach picks up when they're out back. The kids don't need the aggravation. They're on vacation, and in real need of some relaxation; their school sounds like a concentration camp. Can you sort of keep an eye peeled for strangers beachside? Offshore, too." She grinned ruefully. "Call me paranoid. I'm imagining some Chris Craft full of Joe Six-packs fifty yards offshore, pretending to fish while they scan the pool with binoculars."

He smiled. "Not much we can do about that. Well, maybe. Brent is good with a rifle."

"Don't you _dare_. Just tell me, so I can get them inside or whatever. I'm just extra nervous with three pretty girls in the house."

"Four."

"What?" She widened her eyes, pretending not to understand.

He smiled. "Four pretty girls."

She folded her arms. "Get on with you, Rico McCall. Come back tomorrow for your two dozen cookies."

He grinned and turned away. She watched him all the way out to his car, smiling, and brought the garage door down.

"Well, aren't _you_ the little charmer." Sarah leaned a shoulder against the wall halfway down the hall. "I presume bribery requires a certain approach around here. What's the going rate for extra service from rent-a-cops these days?"

Anna shook her head. "He wasn't looking for a payoff when he brought you here. Money wouldn't have been enough to get preferential treatment from these men. To them, this isn't just a job, it's their calling and their profession. They're naturally protective people. But they're only human. They'll give a little extra for someone who appreciates them. Most of the residents don't know their names." She looked at Sarah. "It wouldn't hurt for you to throw him a smile, now and again."

"Not likely. He was feeling me up with the back of his hand when he was hanging onto my arm."

"Sarah, that would be very unlike him."

"I'm not mistaken, and I'm not making it up. He was rubbing my breast with his knuckles."

Anna remembered Caitlin's mysterious effect on the male diners in the restaurant, and nodded. "You receive a lot of unwelcome attention from men, I'm guessing. Don't they believe you when you tell them you're homosexual?"

"_What?_"

She cocked her head. "Gay. A lesbian. Into girls. Was I misinformed?"

"Who told you that?"

She shrugged. "Everyone. It came up while we were discussing sleeping arrangements. That's why you have your own bedroom when everyone else is doubling up."

Sarah raised her eyebrows slightly. "I feel as if I've been insulted two different ways."

"Everyone seemed to think you'd prefer a room to yourself. If you'd rather double up, maybe we can come up with something."

The girl lifted an eyebrow further. "Are there two beds in your room?"

"No. I wasn't offering to share with you. I thought one of the others might change their mind."

"Okay. For a second there, I thought my gaydar was off. What are you suggesting, then? I doubt Caitlin's going to leave Roxanne in a bedroom alone."

Anna met the girl's eyes squarely. "I'm probably exposing my ignorance in such matters, but I thought Bobby might be persuaded."

Sarah's face closed up. "Truth is, I've gotten used to having my own room. This arrangement is just fine."

Anna noted the increase in pulse rate, and the change in the sound of her heartbeat that indicated an increase in blood pressure. "Sarah, have I offended?"

"That depends on whether you're one of those people who thinks every lesbian just needs a good screw to lose interest in other women."

Anna shook her head. "I don't know a thing about it. I only know that you two are close. I thought you might enjoy sharing a room. As I said, I'm ignorant about gay relationships. I'm just trying to see everyone settled in comfortably."

Sarah looked at her silently, deciding. "All right. I believe you. Leave things the way they are. I'd rather anyone who shares a bedroom with me be doing it at _my_ invitation." Her dark eyes half-closed. "Something else I wanted to ask, since we're being so candid. Just how complete a domestic servant are you, Anna? What does your job entail?"

"I run the house, Sarah. I cook and clean, inside and out. I take care of any guests or occupants. I also maintain the garden and the security system. As for what you're really asking, no. Mr. Lynch established that early in our working relationship. He told me, and I quote, 'Whatever duties you may feel obligated to perform, that isn't one of them. Ever.' End quote."

Sarah nodded. "All right. I just thought I picked up something when you were talking to the security guard."

"You did. They think I'm bumping the headboard with him."

The girl snorted. "God. What an image."

"Explain?"

Sarah looked at her. "Well, doing it as a business arrangement's one thing, but come on. Look at him. And at least thirty years' age difference besides."

She remembered the cover story she'd given Roxanne, the one she'd picked by intuition. "Oh, I don't know. I can't say I haven't thought about it from time to time."

The girl's eyebrow lifted. "_Really_. How long have you known him?"

"Since I was seven years old." _Which I still am._

"Well, that explains." She stepped past.

"Explains what?"

"The slavish devotion, if you've been looking up to him since you were little." She headed down the hallway towards her room.

"Sarah. One more thing. Do you want to shop for clothes with me tomorrow?"

The girl turned. "Our host is coming back in a day or so, right?"

"Correct. I expect him home tomorrow, if all goes well."

"I brought some clothes with me. I'll wait until I can shop by myself." She turned back and disappeared through her bedroom door.

After lunch, Anna resumed her errand. The shop, located in San Diego, was more of an electronics supply warehouse than a novelty store, and did a good business with security agencies and corporate customers. The sales representative looked over her modest clothing as she placed her order. "We have the items you're looking for. Are you buying them for someone else? We have special pricing for certain government agencies."

"No. These are for me. Can't you sell them to private parties anymore?"

"Sure. But they're expensive. We usually sell them to diplomats and government officials headed overseas, other serious kidnapping risks."

"This isn't my first order. I know what they cost. I just need them to be reliable and compact – and sold with discretion. Cost is my last consideration."

He shrugged and visited the back shelves, returning with five tiny tracking devices. "Guaranteed for three years or a thousand queries, unconditional. You sure you don't need installation?"

"I already have someone, thanks."

She picked up one more item at a nearby restaurant-supplies store, and returned home just in time to start dinner. Once she had the process begun and could leave it unsupervised for a while, she set about finishing her bedroom housekeeping. She knocked on Sarah's door. "Sarah? Can I come in?"

She heard the privacy lock snick open. The girl opened the door and stood in the opening, barring entry. "What is it?"

"I'd like to come in and finish cleaning. I've swept and done the glass, but I still need to dust."

Sarah stepped back to let her in. "Is this an everyday routine?"

"It will be now that the room's in use." She stepped in. "I can come back when you're out, if you prefer."

The girl gave her an odd look. "No. I'd rather you do it while I'm here."

Sarah had moved in and unpacked. Her room looked more personal than any of the others: she'd brought some objects from home, and used them to make the room hers. The mostly-empty bookshelf on one wall held a small flute, a pair of tiny moccasins, and several photographs. She started to pick up one of them with a dustcloth in the other hand.

"Don't touch that."

She turned. "I only wanted to dust underneath."

"Don't. I'll take care of it."

She nodded, then turned to study the photographs. "I see where you get your beauty, Sarah." She pointed to a picture without touching it, a large group photo. "That must be your mother. You look very much alike. And the older woman sitting in the middle… her mother? Your grandmother?"

"Yes." Her voice softened. "The man next to her is my grandfather. He's dead now."

"I'm sorry."

"That's my father. I'm third from the left. I'm ten in this picture. My youngest sister, right there, is four or five, and following me everywhere." She picked it up in both hands, lovingly. "My oldest sister is just about to become a teenager, and putting on airs."

"You all look very happy."

"We were." She set it carefully back on the shelf. Her voice turned brisk. "How much longer are you going to be?"

"Minutes only." She quickly dusted the night stand, dresser, and window frame. "Done. Do you want me to leave the polish and rag?"

"Yes. Thanks. I'll bring it to the kitchen."

"That's fine." She paused on her way out the door. "Sarah, how did you make Rick let go of you?"

Sarah gave her a sideways look. "You said you knew all about us."

"I know that you kids have incredible extranormal abilities. I'm still learning about their nature and extent. As are you, I think." She cocked her head. "So, how did you make him let go of you?"

"I think I gave him a shock somehow. It wasn't deliberate. I just wanted him to let go, and I felt … _something_, rather like when you shuffle across the carpet and touch a doorknob, and his hand jumped off my arm."

She cocked her head. "How does that make you feel, when you discover something about yourself you never suspected? Does it make you uncomfortable, as if you're sharing your mind with a stranger?"

Sarah shook her head, puzzled and cautious. "Not really. No matter what this is that's happening to me, I'm still me."

She nodded. "Okay. Dinner at six."

III

Bobby sat on the edge of his new bed, strummed his new guitar, and contemplated his future. His present circumstances still felt completely unreal: hiding from the government, a mysterious millionaire father, and the strange bond that seemed to have grown between him and their eccentric housekeeper. The way Sarah's arrival had almost seemed like an intrusion that was shaking up old routines, even though this was only their third night in the house.

Dinner had been quiet and strange. Sarah was clearly on her guard around Anna, and it spilled over on to the rest of them. He found himself remembering all the weird stuff they'd learned about their housekeeper, and wondering what kind of problems she was wrestling with. She'd been even more obsequious than usual, almost hovering over them at the table, refilling glasses and plates and asking repeatedly if anyone wanted something else. She'd tried to engage them in conversation, but Sarah refused to chat, and the rest of them had felt more reserved as a result. He'd left the table stuffed with good food, but strangely unsatisfied.

He decided to take his guitar outside. Roxy had taken a smoke break around sunset, and had two things to report: first, that a fancy stainless-steel outdoor ashtray had appeared six feet from the side door; second, the temperature was dropping as fast as the sun. He figured he could take a chair poolside and plink in solitude.

He stepped through the back door into a surreal scene. The pool was a glowing rectangle that warmly illuminated the landscaping and furniture without touching the deck, which was washed with pale light from the full moon peeking over the roof of the house behind him. Vapor rose off the surface of the pool into the chill air; the pool lights turned it into a thick glowing mist flowing across the unseen surface of the water. Some of it spilled over the slightly raised rim, taking the pool's incandescence with it before the moonlight cooled it. He had a fleeting image of the pool as a witch's cauldron, and wondered what sort of dark magic might be brewing in one this big. It gave him a weird feeling of unease, and he took a chair farther from the pool than he'd originally intended. He settled in, and started to work on a song.

"_I see the Hunter's Moon is rising_

_Stealing my rest with all the light_

_I lick my wounds, resume my restless searching_

_Under the Hunter's Moon tonight._

"_I don't know what I am searching for_

_I sure don't know what I will find-"_

He heard a soft splash and the breath he'd taken in for the next verse stuck in his chest. "Hello?"

"It's me." Sarah's voice.

"Ah, I didn't know you were in there."

"Good. I'd hate to think it was my company that put you in this mood." By her voice, she was moving around in the pool. He got up, setting the guitar in the seat, and went to the edge. He peered in, and saw a head trailing a long train of dark hair bobbing through the blanket of fog.

She glided towards him, only her head visible. "Just what I needed. I can almost hear my skin soaking in the moisture after two days on the road." She rolled over, and a bare arm rose out of the mist and disappeared again as she lapped the pool languidly.

"Beautiful out here," he said, feeling his heart speed up. "Full moon and all."

"Two days past full," she said without looking up at it.

"What do you mean, 'put me in this mood'?"

She glided back to him and put her forearms on the edge of the pool, then rested her head on them, looking up at him. "You know what I'm talking about. I've been listening to you play for six months, and all the songs you write are full of sadness and loss and angst and anger." She made a show of looking around. "It seems to me you could find some inspiration for something a little more positive."

"This isn't spring break, Sarah. We're on the run from psychos with government IDs, and we don't know when we can go home again."

"Maybe so, but it's a very comfortable way to hide. Not exactly a shotgun shack, is it? Come on, Bobby. You're plinking on the most expensive guitar you've ever owned. You're sharing a bedroom with Eddie, but it's still better accommodations than anywhere else you've lived, not counting…"

"The Academy. Right."

"As for the other, let's be blunt. The rest of us have left our families behind, but not you. From the way you described your last foster home, they treated you more like a boarder than a son. You hardly wrote to them. It seems to me that you've finally _found_ a home. Really, what price did _you_ pay to be here?"

He swallowed. "I don't know yet. I haven't seen the bill."

Her eyes softened. "You don't think you can give him what he wants from you, is that it?"

"More like he's claiming something he's got no right to. Anna told me that he lost me."

Her eyebrows lifted. "Lost you?"

"Yeah." He felt his mouth tighten. "You know how it is. People lose stuff all the time. Most people lose their car keys, or a drink at a party. He lost his child."

Sarah seemed to come to a decision. "This is wonderful. You should come in. The air is cold, but the water's blood-warm."

He gestured down at his flannel shirt and jeans. "No suit."

She tilted her head slightly and raised an eyebrow. "Me neither."

His eyes darted downward, but the mist hid her from the shoulders down. But there was no string going around her neck. "Uh, pass."

"Surely you're not afraid."

"Yes. Girls who talk like schoolteachers scare me." Just listening to her, people would think she was a child of privilege who'd gone to private schools all her life. But he remembered her talking about how excited she was when her father got running water into the house when she was seven. Truth was, she was raised in near-poverty and largely self-taught. Her appetite for knowledge had outgrown reservation school early, and she'd been schooling herself on the Net and from the shelves at the Globe Public Library when the Darwin Academy had come calling. It was just one more thing about her that intimidated him.

Her look turned mischievous and challenging. "Cluck, cluck." She started to rise out of the water, and he quickly looked away. He heard a splash, and then her voice from the other side of the pool. She turned to face him, head barely out of the mist. "There's nothing to be afraid of, Bobby. You know my tastes."

_And you know mine. _"Exactly. Wouldn't want to ruin your reputation."

"Don't be an old stick. Come in for a swim." Still facing him, she planted her elbows on the pool rim behind her and lifted up. He could just make out the tops of her breasts; and maybe it wasn't just his imagination that put two darker spots in the glowing fog, right in the proper places. "I promise I won't peek."

"Well." Anna's voice from the doorway behind him. "I didn't expect anyone else out here. How's the water, Sarah?"

Sarah slid back down into the fog. "Fine."

Anna was dressed in a little white string bikini, and carried a towel over her arm. "Don't mind me. I came out to vacuum the pool, actually. You can do a better job if you're in the water." She looked at his clothes, and the guitar in the chair. "I take it you're not going in?"

"Uh, no." He sat down and laid the guitar in his lap.

Anna looked down at Sarah through the obscuring fog as if it wasn't there. "I wouldn't do that in daylight, dear. The pool is visible from the beach."

"I know." She swam to the steps on the near side of the pool. "Hand me a towel, Bobby? I'm getting out."

Anna stepped forward and opened her towel out in front of her, screening the steps. "Take mine."

Sarah wrapped the towel around her as she got out, then wrung her hair out. "Not much chlorine in the pool."

"I'm careful not to overdo it. Makes it more pleasant to swim in, don't you think?"

"Yes." With a last look at him, she padded out.

Anna looked after her, then at him. "Did I interrupt something?"

"Yes. Thank you."

She pulled the vacuum out of its little shed and assembled it. "She likes you very much, doesn't she?"

He shrugged. "By me."

"Oh, she does. I can tell." She entered the glowing mist from the steps and started vacuuming the unseen bottom. "But she likes doing things her own way."

"Understatement of the year."

She stood at the edge of the drop-off into the deep end, invisible from the chin down, and worked the end of the long handle into the bottom of the diving area. "Is she always so provocative around you? For a lesbian, she seems to behave rather oddly."

"She behaves oddly for any kind of person. No one can figure her out."

"I believe I'd like to try. She's a fascinating young woman. There, all done." She hoisted the vacuum up on the edge of the pool and headed back to the stairs. "She seems lonely."

"She's her own best company. If you don't believe me, ask her."

Anna came up out of the pool, and he stared dumbly for a moment before he quickly turned his head and reached for Sarah's towel on the chair back behind him. The white suit turned translucent when it was wet, and clung to her like spray paint, concealing absolutely nothing. He stood and reached behind him, offering it. "Here."

""What's- oh. My." The towel was pulled from his fingers. A moment later, she said, "Okay. I'm decent." The towel wrapped her from armpits to mid-thigh. "Guess I won't be wearing _this _suit again."

"It's perfect for the beach or sunbathing. Just don't get it wet." He grinned. "At least not in front of Eddie."

"I won't be getting it wet in front of you, either. And I can't _imagine_ your father's reaction." Her look turned serious. "Roxanne picked this out for me, the day after we quarreled. Do you think..."

He shook his head. "No. Not her style. You never have to wonder if she's pissed at you. If she picked that out, it's cuz she liked it." He put a hand under his chin. "Come to think of it, I'm not so sure she didn't know it turns to smoke when it's wet. _She'd_ still wear it, probably."

"Only in front of other girls or Eddie. Her sense of decency is very relaxed around him."

He smiled. "Keeps Kat sleeping light."

Anna cocked her head. "I don't understand."

"Kat feels protective. She thinks they're a little young to be knocking boots. Having sex, I mean," he added quickly, seeing her expression.

She looked up at him. "Do you agree?"

He shrugged. "I've seen kids start younger. They usually wish they hadn't once they're older."

"What about you, Bobby?" She looked up at him, her face lit warmly by the pool. "Are you too young?"

_Is she coming on to me?_ There was no suggestion in her face, just curiosity. "Probably. I don't think you should do it for fun. It's… don't laugh."

"I won't."

"It's a sacrament."

She seemed to think about it. "An act which brings one closer to God, yes?"

"Yes. But it has to be with the right person."

"And how do you find the right person, among a billion possible partners?"

He swallowed. "I don't know. I guess you start by falling in love. That narrows things down a little."

She nodded gravely. "You love her. And she seems to love you. But, to her, it's not a sacrament. It's recreation. And she prefers girls. You think it would mean nothing to her. I think I see." She placed a tiny hand on his arm. "What are you going to do?"

He shrugged. "I don't know. Wait and see if something changes, I suppose."

"Like what? Is it likely she'll change her mind?"

His heart sank. "Doubt it."

"Will you fall in love with another girl, then?" Her hand was warm on his forearm, the pressure light and gentle, strangely intimate. Or maybe not so strange, considering she didn't have on much more than a towel. But it still didn't feel like an offer. It felt like she was… _reading _him somehow, learning secrets, maybe stuff he didn't know about himself.

He shook his head. "I don't see it happening. I don't know what I'm going to do."

She took her hand away. "I'm sorry to see you so unhappy, Bobby. If there's anything I can do, I'll do it. Just ask."

There it was again. Anybody watching them would think he'd been propositioned, but he didn't think so. Then again, he couldn't figure what she _was_offering him. "Thanks. I'll keep it in mind. Right now, I think I'll just kick back and plink." He reached for his guitar and sat back down. "You ought to get out of those wet things."

"Here?"

He jerked his head up. The towel was still around her. "Joke." She glided past him towards the house.

"Anna."

She turned back, eyes questioning.

"I wonder… what's it worth to you to keep Eddie from finding out you're a natural blonde?" He added, "Joke."

He felt the guitar jerked from his hand, the world spun, and water closed over his head. He came up coughing, with water spraying from his nose.

Anna stood at the rim of the pool, grinning like a shark. His guitar was sitting in the chair he'd vacated. "How long can you hold your breath?" She whipped off the towel and sprang into the water.

"Aaah!" He churned towards the opposite side.

A hand grabbed his waistband. "_Oh_, no you don't." He plowed on, taking her with him for a few steps. As he gained the rim of the pool, an arm circled his neck and yanked him back into the water with a huge splash. Shrimp or not, she was strong as a gorilla.

She chased him all over the pool, laughing, and yanked him back in and ducked him every time he got close to the rim. Before long, he was laughing too. Finally, he quit running and turned to grapple with her. He got his hands on her wrists, but he couldn't pin her arms; she writhed like a snake, time and again breaking his grip after only a moment. So he let go and caught her in a bear hug. She stopped struggling then and laughed some more, softly, her head tucked under his chin.

"Having fun?" He looked towards the door to see Sarah standing near the pool rim. He felt an instant flush, and the fog on the surface around them burned off, leaving them in a six-foot circle of clear water. He let go. But Anna didn't move away. "Come in," she said, happy and innocent as a little kid as she reached up to run her fingers through his wet hair. "We're playing a game."

"No thanks," Sarah replied coolly. "It looks like a game for two." She turned and went back in the house.

He looked down at Anna's backside through the water, before the fog slid back in to conceal them again. "Jesus!" The suit had been translucent when Anna had come up out of the pool. Immersed, the bikini turned almost transparent. From the pool rim, she probably hadn't looked like she was wearing a suit at all.

"Guys, you okay in there?" Kat stood at the rim.

"Just _great_. Kat, can you grab another towel?"

Caitlin glanced around. All their churning had made the mist even thicker, rising over the pool rim and blanketing the deck. She found the towel on the concrete, picked it up, and draped it across the chair. "Be right back," she said as she headed for the door.

He held Anna at arm's length, a distance of about two feet. She was obscured from the nose down by the mist. "You might want to get out before she comes back. I won't peek."

Her eyes hooded. "Oh. Yes. Forgot, sort of."

He turned around as she climbed out. A moment later, she said, "Okay." She was covered up as before. "That was fun, wasn't it? Thank you."

"Don't know what Sarah thought of it."

She rubbed her head with a corner of the terrycloth. "Perhaps she thinks she has some competition now, from a girl who'll treat you right." There it was again: the words were a clear come-on, the tone and manner not. He wondered what was going on in her head.

Kat came back with a towel, and approached the pool. Anna reached for it. "Maybe I should give it to him." She added confidentially, "He's not wearing a swimsuit."

"_Bobby!_" The big girl colored.

"I'm still in my frickin street clothes. She pushed me in." He mounted the steps with water pouring out of his pants legs and one shoe missing.

Anna handed him the towel. "Joke."

III

The phone rang at two AM. Anna picked it up and said, "Hello, sir." Her voice's register, pitched higher than she used for private conversation with him, alerted him that there were others listening.

"_Where are the kids?_"

"Everyone is still up. We're watching movies. _The Terminator's_ on right now."

"_Really. How do you like it?_"

"It's quite interesting. It's making me think about some things. Are you coming home?"

"_Roger that. I'm on the road. I should be there by noon._"

"The kids will be glad to hear that. How soon can they leave the house?"

"_Let me get a nap in, and we'll start making IDs. Shouldn't take more than a day. Cabin fever?_"

"I think so."

"Is it him?" Roxanne stood beside her, eying the phone.

"Yes. Sir, Roxanne wants to talk to you." She handed over the phone with a smile and returned to the couch. But, as she stared at the screen, she tuned out almost everything but Roxanne's voice and Mr. Lynch's as it came through the phone.

"Gawd. Are you about done sightseeing yet?" The girl pitched her voice low; Anna was the only one in the room who could hear anything but a murmur. "I was starting to wonder if you'd bugged out on us."

"_Good to hear your voice too, Roxanne._"

"By the time I see you again, I'll need to cut your stitches."

"_No need. I can do it myself._"

"No way. I want to make sure it gets done right. We can't afford to lose you."

"_Great._" She could hear the smile in his voice. "_Now I have two mother hens in the house._"

"Three. Kat will want a turn." Her voice softened. "Are you okay? Was there any trouble?"

"_Not really. My biggest challenge was staying out of sight. Everything went fine._" Mr. Lynch's voice softened. "_How are you holding up? Everyone treating you okay?_"

"If by 'everyone' you mean our den mother, no new problems. I learned my lesson, and I won't buck her again. She's kind of sweet, actually, when she's not being a Nazi."

"_Good. I want you two to get along. I hated throwing you all together and leaving like that; I just didn't have a choice._"

"We've come to an understanding. She told me a few things; it makes her behavior a little easier to take."

"_What sort of things?_" He was instantly on guard.

"Nothing you'll have to shoot her for. In fact, she asked me not to talk to _you_ about it," She said mischievously. "She said it would weird you out."

"_Humph. Sarah's there, I take it?_"

"Moved in and made herself at home. Even managed to piss off Security already."

"_No reason to put it off, I suppose. Well, I'll be home before noon. We'll start making IDs by tonight._"

"Um, did she tell you I need one that says I'm twenty-one?"

"_God's sake. Why?_"

"Um… Hang on." Roxanne padded towards the couch. "Anna? He wants to talk to you." The girl placed the phone in her hand.

"Yes, sir?"

"_I take it we're not private._"

Eddie and Caitlin, sitting on either side, were clearly listening. Even the desultory conversation between Bobby and Sarah at the other end of the room had stilled as she'd taken the phone. "Not by five. Do you need it right away?"

"_That depends on what you told her. Is your cover blown?_"

"It's awfully frayed, sir. I think we should replace it."

"_You think they're ready for the truth?_"

"I can't be sure. But the one we have won't last much longer."

"_All right. We'll put our heads together when I get there. Meantime, what's this about giving her a legal-age ID? They'll take one look at her and call a cop. They won't bother to run it through a computer._"

"Actually, I think giving her one would be the safest course. Unless I just buy her cigarettes." At this, Roxanne started making urgent waving motions and shaking her head. "But I think she wants one for club admission as well."

"_She has a fake ID._" He said it in the same voice he'd used to discuss Sarah hitchhiking.

"No, sir, not anymore."

"_But she'll get another._"

"I don't think so, sir. But I promised I'd get you to do it anyway."

"_What did I tell you about making promises?_" He sighed theatrically. "_So, to back you up, I've got to. I suppose you knew I would. How do we make her look twenty-one for the picture?_"

"Not a problem, sir." She smiled at Roxanne and gave a thumbs-up. "I'm sure we can take care of that."

"_All right. Anything else?_"

"Nothing that won't wait until you're home and rested." At a gesture from the girl sitting beside her, she added, "Oh. Caitlin wants to talk to you, sir."

Caitlin left the house and stood by the now-dark pool area to talk; Anna turned her gain up full to listen, filtering out a hundred other sounds that leaped into her awareness. "Mr. Lynch? I'm ready for my lecture."

"_Humph. It's going to be a short one. I know how headstrong she can be. But why did you help her? You know the risks._"

"We all knew the risks, sir. Including Sarah. It's just… she was the only one of us with a shot at something we were all desperate for."

"_A chance to touch home and say goodbye._"

"Yes. She was doing it for all of us, sort of."

"_I'm sorry, Caitlin. If there was another way, I'd do it._" His voice hardened. "_But this is it. If IO had found her in the reservation or on the road, we'd all be on the run or in custody right now. She's strong, but when IO wants your secrets, they use methods that make strength irrelevant. They'd have peeled her mind like an onion, and she'd have told them everything she knew. Even if they hadn't caught her, if IO had learned she was in contact with her folks, her sister or grandmother would have disappeared and come back to her family a piece at a time until Sarah gave herself up._" His voice softened. "_But you're right. Of all of you, she had the best chance of getting away with it, and it looks like she did. People here aren't inclined to talk to strange whites anyway, and the tribal elders put the word out to be extra closemouthed about the Rainmaker family. A few strangers knocked on her parents' door; grandmother's too, pretending to be Indian agents. They got zero. Likewise a few neighbors and people in town. I spotted some remote surveillance and left it alone, since she was already gone. If she doesn't contact them again, I think they'll be okay._"

"Are you okay to drive home? Don't push it."

"_Now you sound like Roxanne. I'll be fine. Being able to go long periods without sleep is a gift from the Genesis Project._" He lowered his voice. "_Caitlin, Anna's all right, isn't she?_"

"I don't know where to take that question. I don't know what you think is normal behavior for her."

"_Really._ _That bad._"

"We know you two are keeping secrets from us, Mr. Lynch. We're sort of reserving judgment. But there are too many odd things about her to ignore. Some of them are amusing. But some are as noticeable and disturbing as… your scars."

"_I see._" He was quiet for a moment. "_I can't fault you for a lack of trust._"

"You misunderstand. You trust her, so I do, too. But I'm a little worried about her. Most of us are. We all think Anna's another escapee from IO, only she didn't get away as quickly or cleanly as we did."

A moment of silence. "_Your guess is right, but it falls far short of the truth. The secrets we're keeping won't endanger any of you, Caitlin. I just wanted to see you all settled in before I hit you with any more revelations. We'd have told you everything by now if I'd stayed home._" He took another breath and blew it out, almost a sigh. "_It's one more thing to deal with when I get there. I don't want to do it over the phone. All right?_"

"Yes, sir."

"_Fine, then. I'll see you in a few hours._" The phone clicked.

"I'm fine, too," Anna heard her say faintly, apparently to the dead phone. "Thanks for asking. I'm a little scared, though. I've never been the leader type, if you know what I mean. It makes me about as nervous as being on the run. I need somebody to tell me I'm not totally screwing it up."

Anna stretched. "I'm about done in, guys. Turn off the TV when you go to bed, will you?" She got up and went to her room, engaged the privacy lock, and listened.

She heard Caitlin reenter the living room. "He says he'll be home by noon. It sounds like we'll be able to move around by tomorrow."

Several loud claps, from Eddie, she thought; the sound indicated large hands.

"Where's Anna?"

"Went to bed," Roxanne said. "Can you believe it?"

"Not really. Mr. Lynch also said he has something to tell us about her when he got back, something big. In the meantime, I have a new Anna-moly."

"A what?" Sarah's voice.

"We keep noticing things about her that don't make sense or add up; behaviors that leave us scratching our heads, or abilities no normal human should have. Roxanne got us started on it, and now it seems like there's something new every day."

Sarah said, "I bet Bobby could tell us something interesting about her."

"Sarah…" Kat said.

"No, she's right." Bobby paused. "She was in the pool."

"_She_ was in the pool?"

"Can it, Sarah," Roxanne said. "Somebody might think you're jealous."

"I was in the water too," Bobby went on, "but that's not important. It's pretty chilly out there. When she got out, she didn't show any sign of being cold."

"_Bobby_."

"I'm talking about _goosebumps_, Sarah. You were pebbled with them when you got out. I was too, even though I was covered up. In wet clothes, but still. She hardly had anything on, and she wasn't in any hurry to dry off or wrap up. But her skin was smooth as plastic. So, what did you spot, Kat?"

A pause, then: "She's a phenomenal typist."

A snort from Eddie. "Only a geek would think that's a superpower."

"Eddie, she didn't know how to type seven hours ago. She asked me to teach her. Guys, I'm fast. Very fast. I've been typing almost since I could write. I won competitions for keyboarding, and that was _before_ the change, which nearly doubled my speed. Once I get rolling, I can cruise along at well over two hundred words a minute. And she was matching me word for word after a half hour's instruction."

"So she knew how already, and she was pulling your leg."

"I don't know. She was totally inept for about five minutes, then she started picking it up, and suddenly she was whizzing along. Why would she pretend not to know how to type, and then pretend to learn at such an impossible speed?"

"I'm losing interest, frankly," Roxanne said. "She is what she is, like Bobby's dad. Grunge is right. It doesn't matter what secrets they keep, as long as they're on our side."

"Your curiosity seems easily satisfied all of a sudden." Suspicion tinged Caitlin's voice. "Roxy, do you know something?"

"No. No, no. I just – Bobby's dad said he'd explain when he got home, right? Let's just be patient, that's all I'm saying."

"Second that." Eddie's voice seemed artificially light. "You know I like her, weird or not. I'm tired of us always talking about her like she's an escapee from a mental ward." After a pause, he added, "It reminds me too much how we all got here."

"Which is one reason why we do it," Caitlin said. "If her case is similar to ours, I want to know all about her, and what they did to her."

"Well, I _don't_!" Roxanne nearly squeaked. Then, in a lower voice, she continued. "When I was in there, I thought I was scared as I could possibly be. Now I know better. If they ever catch me again, and I end up back in one of those cages, knowing I might end up like _her-_" Her voice trembled on the verge of tears. "They were just getting started on us, we know that. But they were a long way from done with _her_, too. Where was it going to end? They were going to t-turn us into robots, or what?"

Anna found the impulse to open the door and go to her curiously powerful. She was relieved when she heard Caitlin and Sarah both step to the snuffling girl. From the soothing sounds the two older girls were making, she deduced they were holding her. She sat on the bed and waited for the children to settle down and head for their rooms.

_Raising kids is tough._

An hour before dawn, she was sitting at the computer in the kitchen, exploring the machine's capabilities while her bread was baking. She heard a murmur from the sisters' room, and knew Roxanne was restless again. She approached the bedroom door without turning on the hall light.

"Where am I? Oh, God, oh, God, no. Kat? Mom? _Mom_…"

She opened the door. The night light cast a dim glow across the floor, leaving the beds mostly in shadow. But her eyes clearly made out Caitlin in her bed with the sheets down to her knees, lying on her side and curled around her teddy bear. Roxanne lay with her sheets tangled around her feet, her head and hands in motion. Her temple glistened with tears.

She knelt next to the bed. "Roxanne," she called softly. "Roxanne. Wake up, sweetie. You're having a bad dream."

"Whuh?" The girl opened her eyes wide and tried to sit up.

Anna took her hand. "You're safe in Mr. Lynch's house. Your sister is in the room with you. I'm just a word away. Those people will never lay hands on you again. I promise."

The girl shivered. Anna drew the sheets up to the girl's chest and tucked her in. "There, all snug and warm."

"What time is it?"

"Oh, about four, I think."

"Stop it. You know to the second, don't tell me you don't."

"It's four eleven. Too early to get up."

"You're up."

She listened to Caitlin's breathing: deep and regular. "I don't sleep, sweetie."

"Not ever?"

"No. I'm watching, all the time. Go to sleep." She smiled. "Blueberry muffins for breakfast."

"Don't like em." Her breathing deepened. "But I bet I'll like yours…" Her hand squeezed Anna's, and she was asleep again. Anna waited until she was sure the child wouldn't wake again, then rose and left the room, to prepare muffin batter.

III

"Bobby, if you don't like my muffins, just say so."

"They're great." He presented the half muffin to her again, his eyes locked on hers. "So good you want to share. Sample your wares, Anna."

She picked a tiny bite off the top with three fingers. He pushed it towards her. "Uh-uh. Don't tell me you can't eat half a muffin."

"I'm not a stray dog. I don't need someone to feed me."

Caitlin stopped eating and watched her. Anna hesitated, then plucked the pastry from Bobby's fingers. "Are you ever going to explain this?"

"Sure." He nodded. "I like to watch you eat."

"Fine. I'm eating, see?" She popped it in her mouth, chewed, and swallowed, then chased it down with half a cup of black coffee. "There. I've embarrassed myself for you. Happy?" But she smiled as she said it, and he smiled as well.

A few minutes later, she went to the bathroom to purge her system. When she returned to the kitchen, Sarah had joined them at the table, and all three teenagers shared an odd look as she re-entered the room. She'd been listening carefully from the bathroom, so she knew they hadn't exchanged a word. But some message was passing between them she couldn't decipher.

"Sarah. Would you like some breakfast?"

"When does Roxanne get up?"

"I can't say; it varies. She was up late, and had a restless night."

The girl glanced at Caitlin. "I'll wait a bit." She stood and picked up a book from the table. "I'm headed for the pool. If she stumbles into the kitchen, call me."

After she left, Anna turned to Caitlin. "Do they always breakfast together?"

The girl shook her head. "Something new. They've gotten tight since we left the Academy." She sat down at the computer and brought it live.

Bobby glanced her way as he buttered another muffin. "Something odd happened after we came out of the cells. Hard to describe, but a lot of personal relationships sort of shifted. When it came time to run, I saw kids separate from best friends and take off with people they hardly knew. It was weird." He lowered his voice. "Our pod stayed together, but the dynamic seems… Kat and Sarah used to hang out so much, gossips thought maybe they were an item. You'd never know it now. And Rox seems a lot less on top of things with Eddie than she used to."

"What about you, Bobby?" She stepped close and put a hand on the table, leaning over him. "How have you changed?"

He shrugged. "I don't know. If I'm different, somebody might have to tell me."

"And therein lies the change, dude." Eddie sauntered in and eyed them keenly. "You don't know yourself any more. Hanging with chicks will do that to you." He sat across from them. "Heavy emphasis on the plural. What's for breakfast?"

She straightened. "Breakfast bread is blueberry muffins. Beyond that, it's made to order. Dinner's another story. Well? I bought bacon and eggs for you."

He raised his eyebrows. "Really? Didn't expect that, once I found out you're a health nut."

She moved to the refrigerator. "The health risks associated with pork, fat, and fried food are well established. I think we can risk them in moderation. Will you settle for four slices with your eggs?"

"How many eggs?"

She turned. "Good grief. How many do you eat?"

He grinned. "Four's enough, if I've got something to eat with them."

"I can see I've got my work cut out with you. Scrambled, fried, poached?"

He leaned back with his hands behind his head. "Fried if I got toast to dip in the yolks. Otherwise scrambled. Slow, over low heat, with butter and half-and-half."

"You're pushing it, bro."

"No, he's not." She smiled at the boy. "I'll be pleased to fix them any way you like." She set a skillet on the stove and assembled ingredients. Then she glanced out the window over the sink, which overlooked the pool. "Well, isn't _that_ interesting."

"What?" Bobby pushed back his chair. "Sarah?" Eddie stood as well.

"Yes. Come look." Together, they looked out the window.

Across the pool, Sarah sat on one of the pool deck's low loungers, her back to the greenery of the landscaping. She was reading, with one knee drawn up to prop up the book, totally absorbed.

A foot from the back of the chair, a rabbit grazed in the flowerbed at the edge of the deck. Sarah turned a page and shifted her legs. The animal flicked its ear, but never paused in its leisurely breakfast.

"Doesn't it know she's there?" Eddie whispered, even though they were separated from the scene by two panes of glass and thirty feet.

"Of course it does. It heard her move." Bobby whispered too.

"Somebody's pet then." Eddie leaned forward, staring intently.

"It's not wearing a collar," Anna said. "And I've never seen it anywhere else. Mrs. Sylvestri keeps dogs."

A bluebird swooped down to a landing on the chair back, inches from Sarah's head. Its tail brushed Sarah's hair as it turned around on the tubular perch. It peered over her shoulder, looking for all the world as if it were reading her book; then it flew away.

"She told me she felt closer to nature after she manifested." Caitlin had joined them at the window. "Wow."

A hummingbird appeared, an almost iridescent green in color, with a bright red cap. It bobbled around the girl's ear, as if mistaking it for a flower. She waved absently, not looking up from her book, and the bird retreated into the garden, unperturbed.

"_Calypte anna_," Eddie said, smiling at her. "Anna's Hummingbird. Seen it before?"

"A regular visitor. But it's never been _that_ friendly."

"Well, we all call her a Disney princess. All we need is a deer to come out of the brush."

"Hey," Roxanne said from the doorway, yawning. "Am I last up?"

"Good morning, dear," Anna said, smiling. "Sarah's been waiting to eat with you."

After breakfast, the kids scattered around the house. Anna made cookies and cupcakes and cleaned the kitchen. Then, determined that her employer should find everything in order, she patrolled the house aggressively with cloths and polish and cleaners.

"Yeesh," Bobby said, lifting his feet off the floor in front of the couch as she passed under them with the vacuum. "If you get like this on half a cup of coffee, I'd be scared to see you on a full one."

"I want all this done when Mr. Lynch gets here, in case he needs me for something else."

He shared a glance with Sarah, curled up on the other end of the couch. "Like what?"

She tipped the heavy chair opposite with one hand while she vacuumed the carpet underneath. "Several possibilities come to mind. IO may be looking for the car you came in. We need to get rid of it." She set it back down and ran the machine under the coffee table. "Or he may want to get started on IDs right away, and I may be of some use. Or he might want a meal before his nap. I'll let the house go to do whatever he wants, but I'd rather not have to." She pushed the sweeper down the hall.

Behind her, she heard Sarah say, "Do you think she'll change clothes before he gets here?"

John Lynch arrived as lunch was almost ready. He didn't contact her by comlink; he flickered into her awareness when his locator bug closed to direct tracking range as he approached the gate. Her next indication was the sound of his car at the mailbox. The security cruiser rolled to a stop within the microphone's pickup range as well; she concluded they must be meeting in the street.

"Morning, Mr. Lynch. How was the trip?" The way Rick said it somehow conveyed that the man didn't expect much of an answer.

"Dull and tiring. Are my guests behaving?"

"No trouble at all, sir. Don't even know they're there."

She picked a plastic box of cookies off the counter and headed for the garage door.

"I heard it a bit different. Sorry if they were any trouble."

"Just a little misunderstanding when one of them arrived, is all. They've been church mice since then. They hardly stir out of the house." He cleared his throat. "Annie offered me a bribe to keep a close eye."

"I hope it was enough."

She sent the garage door up. The two vehicles were stopped side-by-side in the road facing in opposite directions. The two men were talking a few feet apart through open windows.

"Looks like it's on its way out now."

She walked down the driveway with the box and a smile. "Sir, you're right on time. Lunch is about to be served." She stepped between the cars. "Rick, I expected you sooner."

The guard grinned. "Decided to earn my bribe and wait until I went off shift."

"Hmf." She passed the box through the window. "They're still warm. If you'd come to the door, you'd have got milk or coffee to go with them."

"I was afraid of running into Sarah."

She shook her head, smiling. "Come back when you're off the clock, Rick. I'll send you home with a hot supper. Prime rib and trimmings."

When Mr. Lynch exited the car in the garage, she took one good look at him and decided a meal would be the limit of his exertions before sleep. She observed carefully as the kids greeted him and they all moved to the table, watching him establish his place in the group dynamic. Until now, seating arrangements had followed a set pattern at lunch and dinner: Caitlin had unknowingly taken Mr. Lynch's usual chair at the head of the table, with Roxanne and Eddie on one side, and Bobby on the other; at dinner last night, Sarah had completed the circle by seating herself at the other end of the table. This time, Caitlin and Roxanne waited for Mr. Lynch to seat himself, then sat flanking him. Eddie sat next to Roxanne, as usual, but Sarah moved to Caitlin's side of the table. This left Bobby sitting at the end directly opposite his father and as far from him as possible, flanked by his friend and quasi-girlfriend. She felt the arrangements, before and after, spoke volumes about their relationships.

Mr. Lynch's eyes swept over them all as he sipped ice tea. "You've been spending time outside. I trust it's been on the property."

"Around the pool, mostly," Caitlin said. "We haven't even stepped in the front yard since we got here."

Roxanne pouted theatrically. "I've been going crazy, listening to the surf day and night and not being able to hit the beach. Anna doesn't even want anyone to see we're here without ID."

Anna refilled Mr. Lynch's glass. "At least five people already know we have guests. We can trust our security detail, but Mrs. Sylvestri knows, of course. She's seen Eddie, and heard his voice. And Caitlin tells me that Mr. Rafiq waved to her from the beach."

"Guess I'd better pay him a visit, then. Later." He pushed a forkful of spinach crepe into his mouth. "Other business. Anna told me you turned over your runaway money. That's good. Make me lists of things you need. Or want. Or dream about. Set your imaginations free. I won't make any promises, but I'll see what I can do."

From behind his glass, Bobby said, "Feeling like playing Santa?" The tone was casual, but the boy's eyes were sharp.

The others shifted in their seats or grew still. Anna heard all their breathing patterns change.

Mr. Lynch's answering look was grim. "Or maybe a divorced father?" He set his fork down. "I'm not sure I have the energy to do that discussion justice, Bobby. But I'll try, if it can't wait."

"Bobby," Caitlin said in gentle reproach. The others looked at him.

The boy shrugged. "We're not going anywhere yet. Probably should do it in private anyway." He picked up his fork for the first time and cut three pieces out of his crepe.

The man nodded. "Okay. Give me four hours in the rack, and I'll start taking you guys into the basement."

Roxanne piped up. "What about your stitches?"

"Another day or two won't hurt. My main concern now is finding out what IO is doing to locate us, beyond computer searches, which they're _very_ good at." He locked eyes with Sarah. "We know they're watching your families, and they're surely monitoring their phone and Web traffic. But the manpower they can set to looking for you is relatively thin. I'm certain they want to keep the number of people who know the truth about you as small as possible, and that will hamper their search. Avoiding discovery should be easy enough, if we know where IO's looking."

A sharp intake of breath from Caitlin. "Anna bought us stuff with a credit card."

The master of the house shook his head. "Any card I gave her to use is untraceable, even by them. And I'm working on better ones for all of us. They won't catch us that way. Or from your school records, once you're back in classes."

"What, going back to _school_?" Eddie was aghast.

"In less than a week, if things go as I expect." The corner of his mouth twitched. "What? You were expecting to put your lives on hold, lounging around the pool until IO quit looking for you?"

"Well…"

Anna took the empty serving dish back to the sink. "I have more, if anyone wants seconds."

"What about you, Anna?" Bobby stood. "Time for lunch."

"_Bobby_." She flicked her eyes toward Mr. Lynch.

"Bobby, what are you doing?"

"She hasn't had anything all day. She needs to eat." He stepped to her and grasped an elbow.

"No, I don't. Not with the rest of you."

"Bobby, let her go." Mr. Lynch didn't rise from the table, but his fatigue had vanished.

Bobby guided her to his seat. "As soon as she's filling her mouth. She acts like a servant around us. And it's worse since you got back."

Sarah gave him a sharp look. "She _is_ a servant, Bobby."

"No. I don't think so." He urged her into the chair with pressure on her arm.

She looked at Mr. Lynch. "I'm sorry, sir. He's been very insistent."

The boy looked down at her. "Good eats, Anna. Do you want me to cut it up and feed you?"

"Bobby. Please. I don't-"

"Yes." He picked up the fork and speared a bite.

"Bobby." Mr. Lynch looked at him. "If you're angry at me, don't take it out on her."

"You don't know me well enough to tell me what I'm feeling." He looked into her eyes and spoke in a near-whisper. "You have a secret, Anna. A big one. Prove I'm wrong."

"I'm not proving anything I can see." She took the fork and inserted its freight into her mouth; chewed and swallowed. "Except I'm not afraid of germs." She took another forkful while everyone at the table watched. "Could this use a little rosemary, do you think?" Most of Bobby's crepe had still been on the plate; she finished it without further protest, emptied his glass, and stood. "Now. Do you want another, now you've slopped the pigs?"

A few minutes later, with everyone fully engaged in their meals, she slipped away to the bathroom. She was reluctant to let food remain long in her reservoir, because it might become difficult to clean. The meal, the largest she had ever 'eaten', had stretched the elastic tight, and when she discharged its contents, the slurry splashed as it hit the water in the toilet bowl.

She heard the table conversation dwindle away as she depressed the flush handle. She listened intently while she purged and rinsed, wondering what was going on in the kitchen.

When she entered the kitchen, everyone at the table stared at her silently. Bobby's mouth was set and grim as he glanced at his father. "You say you want to help us, take care of us. You say you know what's best for us. You've known her longer than you have us. Shared a house with her, for God's sake. Did you have a _clue_ she was bulimic?"

Mr. Lynch covered his face with one hand. A moment later, everyone heard him chuckling, then laughing silently. Into the shocked silence, she said, "I don't see the humor, sir. It's been one thing or another like this since you left."

He wiped a tear from his eye, still shaking. _It's not really funny. He's just overtired._ "Okay. It was a bad idea. I just didn't know them well enough to guess how they'd take it." He looked around the table. "She doesn't have an eating disorder. She just doesn't need food."

Bobby's brow wrinkled. "So she _is_ Gen? What kind of Gen doesn't need to eat?"

She met the boy's eyes. "No. I'm not Gen."

"Anna," Mr. Lynch said carefully, "is a human-level machine intelligence, housed in a cleverly made chassis that was crafted to closely resemble a young girl. When you came here, it just seemed like one too many surprises for you to absorb."

"No," Caitlin said. "That's not possible."

"You expect us to believe this?" Bobby's eyes flashed, literally; a millisecond strobe of light that no one else was equipped to see. The air temperature rose three degrees.

"_I_ do." Sarah looked at her coolly. "I knew something was off about her."

Roxanne looked almost ready to cry. "What you said-"

"Every word was true, sweetie. Every word."

"What are you playing at?" Bobby continued to confront his father. "Can you prove any of this? _Anything _you've told us?"

Anna folded her arms. "Well, _this_ is unexpected. I've been worrying so much about keeping the truth from you, I never gave a thought to proving myself when it was time to tell you. What about all those things you noticed? Strength, speed, not sleeping or eating?"

"I haven't seen _him_sleep since I met him, either. Kat's crazy strong and fast. Rox can make things rise up and float in the air, for crying out loud. Gen could explain everything away."

She turned to Eddie. "I need some help here. Does he know what you can do?"

The boy's glance and answer were cautious. "Yeah. Showed him last night." He addressed the table. "I touched her. Her skin's artificial, I'd swear to it. That doesn't prove what they're saying, though."

"No." She turned to Bobby. "If you won't trust my word or your father's, will you trust his?" Without waiting for an answer, she stepped to Eddie's chair and tugged him to his feet. "Roxanne, I need to borrow your boyfriend for a minute." She placed her hands on his neck. "Don't get fresh, Eddie. Just do what you do, and tell them what you find."

He glanced at Roxanne, then placed his hands on the sides of Anna's neck. He cocked his head slightly. "Yeah. Like before. I see it a little better now. Sheez, this stuff is tough. I bet it could stop bullets." His eyes unfocused. "Going deeper." His hand slid down her neck and into her shirt collar.

"Hey-"

"Hush, sweetie. Business, not pleasure."

One big hand pushed aside her bra strap to cover her bare shoulder. "No gears or pistons, nothing like that. Muscles, kind of, but not. Not fibrous. Elastic foam, closed-cell, with a tiny electric charge running through them. Looks like… yeah. The bubbles collapse to make the muscles contract. Shiz, why didn't I notice that? Your muscles get _smaller_ when you flex."

"You've never had an opportunity, Eddie. I've never exerted myself around you. I'm pretty strong for a girl."

The other hand circled her waist and pressed into the small of her back. "I think I can do this through the shirt."

"Don't." She reached behind her to pull it out of the waistband. "It might mess up your readings. Your girlfriend will just have to understand."

He spread his palm over the bare skin. "Jeez. Your spine. I don't know what it's made of; I've never touched anything like it. But it's not bone. You couldn't break it with a sledgehammer."

"Some exotic materials went into my construction, I don't doubt."

"Grunge. What's happening to you? Your _skin_!"

He let go and stepped away, looking at his hands. "Huh." They were Anna's shade, smooth, and hairless. "Only temporary. Still…"

He held one hand up, turning it slowly. "Air currents. Never felt that in the house before. Hey, did the AC just kick on? I…" He raised his hand over his head slowly, then brought it down to waist height. "I can feel a temp difference. I'm sure I wouldn't if I wasn't wearing her skin right now."

"Less than a degree Celsius," she agreed. "Not likely."

"Why is it tingling, sort of?"

"The oven is on. The heating element gives off a sixty-cycle hum that I can feel."

"Okay. Moment of truth." He placed his hands on either side of her head and brought it close. They stayed that way a moment, as if they were deciding whether to kiss. "Whoa," he said softly. "There's _no _keeping up with what's going on in there." He stepped back with a faint smile. "Course, I'd probably say the same thing about any chick. But I don't think I'd sense gallium arsenide, or little charge packets whizzing around at lightspeed. Guys, there's a computer in her skull. A real one."

"Go to bed, sir," she said to Mr. Lynch. "I can take it from here."

"You're sure?" The man looked ready to fall down. She doubted he'd shower first.

"Quite sure. I just thought I should wait until you got back."

"All right. Wake me in four hours." He slipped away; she turned away from the table to watch him go, and listened to his footsteps until his bedroom door opened.

Bobby's voice. "So you're a robot. A freaking robot."

_I thought I was as scared as I could possibly be, until I thought I might end up like her. Were they going to turn us into robots?_ She turned to the boy. "'Robots' are those one-armed monsters that weld together body panels at auto plants." She softened her voice and swept them all with her gaze, lingering on Roxanne. "Is that what you think of me? Is that what you see when you look at me?"

Eddie jumped in. "What do we call you, then? E-people? Cyberbabes? Scratch that, there's a website with that name."

Roxanne's focus shifted instantly. "Really. I suppose you know all about it."

Anna put her fingertips to her lips and smiled. "I'm sure he ran across it by accident, Roxanne. Why do you need to call me anything but Anna?"

Eddie shrugged. "Might be important someday, to tag you different from us meat types."

She experienced a curious sensation, as if she had felt a file suddenly rise to the top of her execution queue, only to find it empty when it opened. It was most unsettling. "Eddie, please don't refer to people as 'meat.' It makes me uncomfortable."

"Why not? That's what we are."

"No. Meat is dead, muscle tissue carved from a carcass. You're very much alive. Please don't do it. Seriously. And don't call me a 'robot', either."

Sarah raised an eyebrow. "Inspiring. A minority of one, and already insisting on political correctness." She cocked her head. "Or _are_ you? Are there more like you?"

Again the uncomfortable feeling of lost knowledge. "I have no evidence either way. I don't know."

The girl rose. "Now the masquerade's over, are you still our chimney sweep and scullery maid?"

"And cook and everything else. It's what I do."

"Fine then. I'm headed for the pool, maybe the sauna. Fetch me for dinner, or when our host wants to make me an ID." She disappeared down the hall.

"I didn't dream it. You were in my room last night." Roxanne's expression was guarded. "You said I had a bad dream, and tucked me in. Where did you learn all the mom stuff?"

She shrugged. "All those perfect moms on TV. But I was just trying to give you what you needed."

"The story you told, by the pool-"

"Every word true. You might have drawn some wrong conclusions, though, and I might have let you."

"This just isn't right." Eddie's brow furrowed. "This breaks all the rules. Computers can't lie. They can make mistakes, whopping big ones. But they can't lie."

"Of course they can, Eddie. But they're usually programmed to seek out the truest answer and present it. Really, though, getting a computer to give an incorrect answer is the easiest thing in the world." She heard a soft thud from Mr. Lynch's room at the end of the hall. "Presenting misinformation with the purpose of having it accepted as truth, that's another story. It's much harder to be a good liar than a clumsy one. Excuse me a minute? I have to take care of something."

She padded quickly down the hall to Mr. Lynch's room. She hesitated five milliseconds, then entered his room without knocking. He lay sprawled facedown on the covers; he hadn't even removed his shoes.

His eyes slitted open at her touch, but he lay passive as she swiftly reduced him to his boxers and got him under the covers. She noted the stitches on his abdomen, and checked by infrared for heat from infection; there was none. She put aside an impulse to touch them, and another to touch her lips to his forehead, as she'd seen a hundred times on television under like circumstances.

Only two of Mr. Lynch's guests were still at the kitchen table as she went to the oven and checked her prime rib. Bobby and Caitlin watched her silently as she pulled the broiler pan out of the oven with her bare hands and set it on the stovetop. She inserted a meat thermometer, even though she already knew the roast's surface temperature by looking at it, and could have measured the internal temperature more accurately by sticking her finger in. "Nice to be able to skip the mitts, finally," she said to no one in particular. She put it back in and turned to the kids. "Where are Eddie and Roxanne?"

"Said they'd heard enough," Bobby said roughly.

Alarms sang inside her. _If you lie to me enough, I'll skip. And I won't be the only one. _"Where did they go?"

"Living room, I think."

She hurried out. Eddie and Roxanne sat close together on the couch with the TV on. She approached them unseen, and saw that Eddie had raided the kitchen for milk and a plateful of cookies.

Eddie gestured towards the screen, eyes glued to the image. "Watch this next move. It's totally impossible, but the guys she knocks down are all stuntmen from Hong Kong action flicks, and they make it look like she really _could _take down six guys at once. Still, she must have practiced for hours to polish it up."

While Eddie spoke, Roxanne nibbled daintily at a cookie, eyes on the screen. After a moment, however, some intuition seemed to tell her she was being watched, and she turned her head slowly until she spied Anna watching them. They locked eyes, and then Roxanne very deliberately picked a fingernail-sized crumb off her snack and dropped it to the floor. They exchanged a smile, and the girl returned her attention to the show, and her boyfriend. Anna returned to the kitchen.

Bobby's mood was still dark. "They knew, didn't they?"

She shook her head. "They knew I was an IO experiment, just as you all suspected. I gave them some details of my life there. I didn't tell them I'm not flesh-and-blood. And I asked them not to tell anyone. They agreed, because they thought the memories were painful." She waited for a few moments, but neither of them asked. "If I had been the way I am now, they would have been. Very. I really was a robot then, I guess."

"You're impossible, you know." Caitlin shook her head slightly. "The others don't realize. Eddie ought to know better, but I think his comics have warped his perspective; they're full of humanoid machines and gee-whiz technology. Sarah's a humanities type, not a geek; if you told her they were going to start building teleporters next year, she'd believe it. Roxy just accepts you, because that's just the way she is. But I'm a computer geek. I know how far away human-level AI is. You're at least twenty generations ahead of cutting edge, maybe more. A _lot_ more." She shook her head again. "Did they find you in a wrecked alien spacecraft, or what? Because that would be easier to believe than you being built in some IO lab."

Anna shrugged. "I don't know. I don't remember being built, any more than you remember being born. I just know I've been IO property for as long as I can remember."

"I have so many questions, I don't know where to start." Bobby seemed to be running through a gamut of emotions; she hoped it was cathartic, and he'd be able to talk to her and his father reasonably, when more pressing business had been dealt with.

"Unless you need them all answered today, that's not a problem." She smiled at him. "There's time. I guess we're going to be together for a while."

February 2006

"I'm disappointed, truly. I've stood by your side for two years, doing whatever you needed me to do, thinking I was your partner. I've seen the sacrifices and hard choices you've made, and shared in them willingly. I know how uneasily you rest at night, haunted by the past and worrying about the future. Aren't our bedrooms just a wall apart? With my hearing, I might as well be sharing your bed." She accompanied this remark with a look she learned from watching Sarah, hoping for the same unsettling effect it had on Bobby; but either she was copying it inadequately, or he was unsusceptible. She went on. "But I understand why. I know what these kids mean to you. Don't you know they mean as much to me? Why would you deny me that same opportunity to choose and to serve? Did you really think having free will means I'd choose self-preservation over my family?"

She turned her back to him again, crossing her arms. She wasn't angry, could never be angry at this man, but she'd seen the effect of female pique on the males of the household, and she meant to have her way. "You did, didn't you? _Don't you know me any better than that?_"

"Anna-"

"Invent a model number for me, why don't you? That way you wouldn't even have to call me by name. It must be a real _drag_ treating me as a person, just to coax a little clean laundry out of me. Be so much nicer to get rid of all those ridiculous personality traits and just give me orders." She let her voice rise. "Then you can give one of the kids my bedroom, free up some space. Just send me into the basement with the washer and dryer when you don't have anything for me to do. I mean, why not? I'm just another machine, after all."

"_Anna._" She sensed movement behind her. The touch of his big hands suddenly covering her shoulders was a shock; it was precisely the ninth time he'd touched her in two years. He gently turned her to face him. As he did, she noted a strange event in the minor subroutine that regulated her breathing and the tiny devices that simulated a pulse at her throat and wrists and a beating heart between her breasts. Her 'heart' stopped, then resumed, perfectly matched to John Lynch's. _Curious glitch. Must be feedback of some sort._

She stared up at him challengingly. His face was as grim as usual, and etched with weariness. His voice struggled for its usual firmness. "It's not like that. I thought… it would be easier for you, not to realize you'd been left behind to face them alone."

Still in his grip, she shook her head slowly. "Don't be afraid, Jack. I couldn't possibly find a better way to die than standing between those monsters and my family. Don't be afraid of using me."

She saw him slump; the change in posture would have been too slight for a bio to notice. "That was never a problem. The problem was living with myself afterwards." His brow furrowed. "Did you just call me 'Jack'?"

She looked away. "Almost everyone who's shaken your hand twice calls you 'Jack'. _Ivana_ calls you 'Jack'. I'm offering to lay down my life for you. I think I'm entitled to some sort of accommodation, some token of equality. Don't you?"

"All that deference was your idea, Anna, not mine." He dropped his hands and turned away. "I'm too tired to argue any more. I'm turning in. Make sure I'm up before the kids get up for school."

"Jack. It's Saturday."

"Oh. Right. Wake me by six then. I have an errand."

"Will do."

He stopped at the doorway. Without turning, he said, "Anna. That night I went into the warehouse. If I'd known then what I know now, the CIV and all the other gadgets I took wouldn't have been worth facing you in a fight, not with any weapon I could carry."

_And I'd still be there, just another castoff, staring up at the shadows with dust on my eyes._

"But I would have gone in there anyway. For you." He passed through the doorway and down the hall.

She stood perfectly still until she heard his door click shut. Then she picked up his coat, noting an extra half kilogram of weight in the right hip pocket, and hung it in the hall closet. She headed down the hall to change clothes for the job outside, but paused, listening to the breathing and heartbeats and other small noises of her sleeping family. Quieter than the hum of the wires in the walls, she whispered, "Sleep well, my loves. Anna's here."

112


End file.
